Grief does not wait for permission.
It seeps through the cracks,
a damp that blackens the walls
long before you notice the rot.
It rewrites the hours into teeth,
each minute biting down harder,
burying itself in the marrow
until you forget what it felt like
to walk without splinters.
It stuffs silence into your mouth,
a bitter gag you cannot spit out.
Every word you try to form
dissolves on your tongue,
a sentence unfinished,
a prayer that crawls back down your throat.
Grief turns sleep into theater.
Shadows rehearse their parts on your chest,
while behind your closed eyes
it gnaws the wires of your spine,
patient as rust,
waiting for collapse.
It teaches you new rituals.
You count chairs at the table,
always one short.
You fold clothes you cannot give away,
their fabric heavy with echoes.
You carry absence like an heirloom,
polished each day by touch.
And still it does not leave.
Grief is not a guest,
it is the floor itself.
It etches its silence into the boards,
hums its dirge beneath your steps,
daring you to keep moving
while it waits, patient and certain,
for the weight of your body
to break through.
These words belong to the Dark Psalter, a collection of laments written in shadow. Continue reading the full series here.
In Luminance 