[February 12]

This might not be the end of everything.
If it were, surely it would not smell like
lemon dish soap, not taste like violets
and salt. It’s easy to get trapped
in this little bubble, watching waves of time
approach, cascade around you, disappear
into the distance. Easy to pretend
that you alone are timeless. Outside, the trees
are absolutely still. The coldest days are
clear, sunny, unforgiving, harsh and bright,
so cold that frost forms around the corners
of your bedroom window, which you remember
being told would happen. This may be what grieving
feels like now. The thousand nerves in your gut
alive again with pain. The controlled panic
of your heart.


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