Grief
I lost you in a season
when the wind had no name,
and the silence you left
never learned how to settle.
You laughed like it meant something,
like the world might forget its bruises
just for a moment
if it could echo your joy.
God, that laugh —
it cracked open rooms
like sunlight through boarded windows.
Even now, it haunts me in kindness.
But your bottle was heavier
than my hands could ever be.
And no matter how I reached,
you always slipped just past saving.
You drank like you were trying
to un-feel the whole world,
and I watched
as it swallowed you slowly
while you smiled like it was fine.
I gave you my firsts.
My heart.
The softest parts of my soul.
But none of it
could anchor you to this earth.
I still wake up wondering
if you’re cold somewhere.
If you know I would’ve stayed,
even through the storm.
If your spirit ever found peace
in the places your body never could.
People say it’s been long enough.
That I should move on.
But they never kissed your forehead
while your voice cracked in the dark,
or heard you say
you’d try again tomorrow.
If I could hold you now,
I wouldn’t try to fix you.
I’d just sit beside your shadow,
tell it it’s not alone,
and whisper:
“You mattered. Still do.”
You were chaos and charm,
pain wrapped in poetry.
And I will always carry
both the love and the ache
of losing the boy
who burned too bright.











































































