the fluidity of grief

It's not something that ever really ends.

He left that day with no warning.

No hint of conflict or unhappiness

and when he left, he took a part of you with him.

And now you trudge along,

bare-feet on the hardwood floor

lifeless eyes gazing, everything familiar,

but nothing the same.

His hands, his strong, gentle hands

have touched everything you touch.

You remember this as you stare into the sink

and reach to turn the faucet on.

There's a patch of counter space that is clear of dust

where his mouthwash used to sit.

The outline, clear.

Your skin

Your skin is infected

because there is not a place where his hands

have not caressed.

So you scratch and scratch

deeper and deeper

trying to dig him out

and your tears wash over your face

and your hiccuping cry echoes through your now-empty

studio apartment.

Then there's stillness.

One day, months later

your scabbed arms have scarred over.

The counter top has been cleaned and

collected new dust particles

his skin cells no longer a part of it.

You smile in the mirror and dance softly on the hardwood floors.

Your heart is still heavy, but not as.

You remember the imperfections and not just

the perfectness.

How in the later days, his eyes

were a different shade of green

his voice

a different key that no longer

harmonized with your

own.

Then time stops

when you find one of his socks under your bed.

You hold that sock

and you cry.

You cry hard.

Every emotion comes rushing back

and even though it's probably a good thing

that the smell of your house has taken over

the smell of sweat

you curse the air around you for stealing

the only smell you had left of his presence

you breathe in deeply

as your sobs fill your apartment

and the grief that had once became a part of you

that you thought was drying up

comes flooding back

in a new wave.