Grief is Lonely

Some days, I feel okay.

Other days, I don’t.

And there's rarely a warning.

It doesn’t matter how strong I am.

How much healing I’ve done.

How many times I’ve told the story

or stood in the light.

Grief still pulls me under sometimes,

like an undertow I didn’t see coming.

Like my body remembers something

my mind tried to forget.

And what makes it harder is how lonely it feels.

Even when I’m not physically alone.

No one really knows the shape it takes inside me.

No one hears the quiet echoes at night,

or feels the sudden hollowness

in the middle of a good day.

Sometimes I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

Other times, I just miss them.

Or I miss the version of me

that existed before everything changed.

It’s lonely here.

Even when I’m surrounded, I feel set apart,

like everyone else has moved on

and I’m still carrying something they can’t see.

There’s no tidy ending here.

Just a heart that keeps beating

even when it aches.

Even when it’s tired of aching.

And it is tired of aching.

I know it won't ache forever.

I just wish forever was here.