Grief is Pathetic Pain

Removes all eloquence.

Has no known cure.

Has no known use.

Just hurts, helplessly, pathetically.

Returns like a punch when you least expect it to.

When lulled into a false sense of security, the memory of the awful truth seeps through like sharp poison.

Like rotten, rabid sharp teeth.

Isolates you in your own despair.

The emptiness hurts like hunger but you still can’t swallow.

Dead and reduced to nothing but ash.

It cannot be because it is implausible, unthinkable, unbelievable.

You were sitting just opposite me at the dinner table.

And now I will never see you again.

It can’t be true but it is.

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