I haven’t seen grief,
I have only known that it walks quietly,
In and around my room.
And that it can see through me,
Like I am made of glass.
While I sleep,
It carefully prepares a potion,
Of everything bittersweet I remember,
And boy, it carries a big sack of cotton balls.
It dips them one by one, in the potion,
Counting carefully till hundred.
Then it puts my head in its lap,
In it’s warm lap.
And people who have been there,
Would agree, how hard it is to get out of there.
Anyway, grief puts my head in its lap,
And then carefully drops the cotton balls,
Gently, in my ears, shaking my head gently,
To make space for more.
When my head is full,
And there is still some potion left,
It traces them gently, from my eyes,
Down to my chin.
It’s all great, except, that it’s hard to
Convince people, that you were not crying.
You spent a night in the lap of grief.