The Love I Once Knew

 Grief is an oversized weighted blanket—
stitched with memory,
heavy with the shape of someone once here.

At first, it feels almost merciful:
a gentle pressure against the ribs,
a familiar hand resting on your shoulder in the dark.
But soon you realize
it does not know how to loosen its grip.

It teaches the body the language of absence.
It sedates the mind just enough
to survive the unbearable fact
that someone can exist so fully in your soul
and nowhere else you can reach.

Grief does not move by clocks.
It ignores calendars,
laughs at deadlines,
outlives the condolences.

It lingers in ordinary places:
in empty chairs,
unfinished conversations,
songs you can no longer hear casually.

It longs.
It echoes.
It remains.

And the deepest truth the heart must learn
is that grief is not proof of weakness—
it is love with nowhere to go.

Because there are some people
you do not stop loving when they leave.
You simply spend the rest of your life
learning how to carry the weight
of loving them longer
than you were ever allowed to keep them.