It starts quiet—
a drip in the back of my ribs.
A single drop of sadness
that I think I can ignore.
But grief is a leaky roof in the soul—
no matter how many times I patch it,
the rain finds a way in.
The mornings are the worst—
the light comes,
but you don’t.
And I sit at the edge of my bed
feeling the weight of every sunrise
you will never see.
Sometimes I want to scream into the air
just to feel it push back,
to remind me I’m still here.
But all that comes out is a sigh—
a quiet surrender
to the fact that nothing I do
will bring you home.
I wear my sadness like a damp sweater.
Heavy.
Cold.
Clinging to me even when the sun
pretends it’s warm enough to let go.