Tag: grief

dear harrison,

the ac is out in the corolla and summer’s on her way to texas. lately it seems like a sick metaphor for my life. things dying. i find myself alternating between walking in grief or in fear. we try our best to hold on to everything that crosses our paths, but so much of life is having to let go of those same things. i know that on the other side of grief is acceptance or peace, but when you’re in it, it just feels like the world ending.

i listen to every sound the car makes now like stairs creaking in an old house. that’s what fear does. it makes you hyperaware of everything around you. you’re always waiting for the next big scary thing.

fear is a held breath.

i know that the world has ended for me on many nights and begun again in the morning. realistically i know that i’ll be okay. that no matter how i fall, i’ll still be staring up at the sky.

did you know that rock bottom has a basement?

time for me to crawl now.

all my love, suncica

Baggage Claim.

I wait for you.

Like I think I’m supposed to.

You dropped me off one day,

and now it’s way past curfew.

Days pass, weeks, and eventually months too.

I sit like I’m in a church pew.

Who is coming for my rescue?

Am I still on your menu?

If you’ve crossed the ocean,

I can make it by canoe.

I wait for you.

Like I thought I was supposed to.

You were never coming back, were you?

–S.

Tradition.

One wrong move and it’s all tumbling down.

52 cards, face down, on the ground.

Your love has always been conditional.

I guess, that’s what we kept traditional.

It’s never been the most sturdy.

You’re always assessing me in a hurry.

I can never be anything new –

because what you thought of me,

was the only thing that could ever be true.

–S.