in trembling crescendos, so it goes word by word

in multiplied silence

how impotent the pretense conjured by mind,

meagerly dwarfed by absence vast as heart

palpable as flesh

 

how stultified loss becomes, a parasite on routine

fed by devotion, fear, memory’s soft pain

for life had the potential to be

to be good, or not to be this futile

a trope, for sure, but clung to,

for lack of all regularity

we cling to rituals of grief and forgetting

and the frightful/fruitful thing is they work

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