I find it rather odd
See you were here and then one hot summer day you disappeared the way dew evaporates, itās quick, but if you pay attention you canāt seem to miss the moment it goes from dew to mist
grief is strange in the way it runs through you, like water carving a riverbed into your brain. It dries up leaving nothing but the bodies of decaying fish in its wake.
And youāll grow hungry for it. Youāll long for the pain. For the seething reminder itās real when this, this overwhelming agony, is all that remains.
See you can watch the dew dissipate day after day. Until you really catch the moment it goes away, it drowns you in a way. And Youāll try to trap it, catch it like a firefly.
It was never going to work that way. Trust me, I have gallons of morning dew saved in glass mason jars, like fireflies, in my vain attempt to get back to you.
You see, grief ebbs and flows, like the tide. Like a riptide, sucking you out until your lungs burn and your legs ache. The second you feel like giving in, it washes back.
And you sit in an empty, barren, riverbed. Begging, pleading even for that tide to come. For the water to rise and cleanse your soul the way that pastor promised it would. Only nothing feels clean. No, it feels murky as it washes you in sin.
I find it rather odd, the way darkness hung in the air on what was arguably, a beautiful summer day. Or how we clung to it, like it was the last remaining piece of you.
See everything was right, looking up. Then everything abruptly halts and weāre trudging through, with this deep refusal to let go of the pain from losing you.
I find grief odd.










