Sticky Summer
I pictured grief as cloudy
so cold that you bundle in soft comforting things
not as sticky summer days
where even the skin feels ill-fitting
but six deaths in a year
or, a sudden shift of landscape
requires grieving
no matter weather’s moods
and just like sticky summer days,
grief I’ve never been comfortable with
I said I wanted to learn to accept death,
not fear it.
and I may not fear it anymore
but I feel it, ever-present
in the corners now absent—
and the silences left
where conversations were—
in the edge of the garden
where a headstone now sits,
and a houseplant
fertilized with ashes.
all carried in my sticky summer skin
About the Creator
Falen Wilkes
Writer. Poet. Hopeless Romantic who is terrified of love. At home by the seaside and deep in forests.
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