Grief, she called it.
Grief, I suppose, it is:
a name for this
cruel, palpable loss.
Grief, she called it.
So I surrender;
I keel over to this grief.



I miss you dearly, dear. To comfort and with the best intentions, they say that I miss the idea of you, the romance, the replaceable and ambiguous lover figure that so happened to be you. But I think to myself, I truly miss you. You. You, as your own person, one I felt the safest with, who I could assuredly confide in, one who spoke to me with humanity and warmth. You let me selfishly store my sorrows in your heart, you even cherished them.

I’ll not dwell on the romance. I’ll try not to even dwell on you.

Certainly, the idea of you and the romance is malleable. But the you that I long for is not an idea but a person. The absence of you has left me vulnerable and ill.

Truly, I miss you dearly.


Slanted concrete
Teetering down the ssidelwalk
Left right Left rightRiight right left
Walk in a straight line, Miss.
I can’t, I’m sorry. the conrete is slanted
I can’thelp but teereter down the sildewalk.

sad for too long

You can’t be sad for too long. Of course, you’re allowed to be sad, but tolerance is always limited. She has kind people around her; they are caring, patient, willing, but even the most selfless person can be all these for only a while. So the sad one who has been sad for far too long is no longer pitied, but she becomes redundant, tiring, pathetic. How much longer is she going to be sad for? What else does she want but unrequited attention? Over time, her unrelenting sadness depletes the patience of others, it persists beyond their limited provision. Her misfortune is trivialized, but she can’t blame them; she, too, doesn’t have the capacity to help another as helpless as her.
So these kind people wait from afar until she heals, or they leave entirely, bored. Nevertheless, she is left alone and silent.