Grief (Poetic Prose)

I’ve been here before.

This fork in the road looks familiar, and I recognise that signpost pointing me in the wrong direction.

The air is quiet and still, but the silence is frightening. I hear no birdsong, and the voices outside come in waves; muffled and distant as if spoken through glass. I strain to listen, but it takes all my effort, and I recede into the wild landscape instead.

Some days, it is easier to be alone here, to swallow my voice, to lessen my burden, to let the tears fall without being seen.

There is something intoxicating about this place. It’s almost addictive to cling to the pain and its repercussions. So I cradle my heart inside its guilty cocoon, and keep it sheltered from the world outside as it threatens to carry on without her.

But I can feel life tugging at my hand, leading me away from this place, to a future that I’m not ready to see.

Yet I know I must return. I cannot stay here forever, I need to find a way out of this place. And while crossing this landscape is the hardest journey, it’s twice as hard when we choose to do it alone.