writing

I’m grieving for all that which I
cannot hold wide enough in my thighs my pulse is interrupted by arid
starvation my numbness is hard categorization I won’t stop thinking of you
as high, as low
pleasure glides as the space in between
desiring absence, always thread lightly, gently
touch my bone, make me mine, grow slowly
rip off my brain and lick my neurons, lick my sigh
come here, careful

Grief as the capacity to hold loss and see it:
I peep on myself mourning the pleasure that has left me at the expense of me
lulled into concrete, hard wood floors, weathermen, big tits and you smiling

am I able to hold it,
as it drips down my chin onto your chest into your tightness into me

I refuse to name myself us and it (grief) seeps into my inland
a jug pouring onto my resisting

am I scared of loss or rather losing myself in your drowning, shower, closeness, harm
would I have to mourn for myself in you?
Is this why I only wet in distance

Be it little, petite mort,
It is whole as a bomb
too fucking good
too fucking happy

grief evaporates with

our refusal to call ourselves I
or to call you other

but I started mourning you long before you came
cracking into packaged grins
I think it’s through this crack where a little resentment, a little helplessness a little regret lets grief sink in before death arrives

Do we grief for deaths not worth living for, or lives not worth dying for?

Can grief hold wholeness?
Where our absence stands, contained, holly. If so:
don’t call it grief, call it Ocean.