Grief

Your name returns to my mind

each morning—

before the light,

without my seeking it.

It slips between your things,

remnants of a dream

that will not let itself be touched.

At first I denied it—

with that soft clumsiness

of one who believes

they can forget a habit.

But it returns.

Returns,

with a patience so sweet,

occupying the seconds of my day,

in these margins

where nothing matters

and yet everything settles.

Today marks one year.

And time—

that cruel instrument—

has failed to erase it.

And the rain falls.

Falls as always,

with its music upon my face.

Yet something in it has grown strange—

as if it had forgotten

a secret that once made it yours.

Today I do not speak your name.

Or barely,

in this uncertain place.

White bed of graves.

Where death kissed you

with a tenderness

it did not spare for me.

And it has left me here,

as it does each year,

among things that persist,

listening to the sound of your name.

You were my heart—

and you remain my habit.