Grief is a funny thing,
and by funny I mean it feels like getting hit by a truck
loaded with hot-sauce
as the sun eclipses
whilst the shards of glass litter your back
and you forget how to breath
again and again.
It weighs on the soul
demanding attention
tender love
safety
and a reminder that Life Goes On.
I’m sitting here on the floor of my latest rental,
day one in a city unbeknownst to me
with no shoulder to lean on
or familiar space
in which to find respite,
not even the couch behind me.
I step outside to unleash the stew of emotion
and none of it feels real
even if it does give me space
to decompress
from the pangs of grief that come
with each next song of yours
that all get added to my highlight reel
of what you shared with us all.
My darkest days were met with your light,
in song,
in dance,
in tomfoolery.
I watched you rise out of oblivion
song by song.
I watched you on each tour
album by album.
Each instance a reminder
that maybe I could do it too,
and I’m getting better at it each day,
and today you’re gone.
–
I hope you didn’t have to suffer in death
as you did in life,
that you told everyone you loved them,
that you gave it your all.
–
Grief is funny.
One of the immediate reactions is to deny what has happened,
to dream up a million futures
where it doesn’t have to be true, yet.
We seek to deny what we could not delay,
and risk losing the love
that could forever stay.