four years tomorrow.
four years ago tonight, nothing was different.
then there was the tomorrow.
and it all changed.
and she left.
grief.
it's like water.
sometimes it's cleansing,
or purifying,
or refreshing,
or quenching.
sometimes it's relaxing,
it's warm and encompassing,
it's an invasion that washes pain away
sometimes it hurts,
it's too hot,
too cold,
or the open wound is burned by it's salty flow
sometimes it's drowning,
it's big,
terrifying,
or at least suffocating as the waves wash over you too quickly
sometimes it's arranged in anger
or peace
or beauty
or reflection
whatever form of it takes,
whether a stream,
a river,
a fountain,
an ocean,
a waterfall,
a tear,
a rainstorm,
a bath...there it is.
grief. ...
can't believe that she's been gone four years.