You Were Right About The Stars. Each One Is A Setting Sun.

Do you know what is maybe the new extra worst development in grieving?

Is when you can't remember what the initial stabbing sadness was like. Because to return to the primary gasping sadness is to be as viscerally close as you can to the person you will never see again, like shoving their pajamas in your face to smell their very last smell.

But now I am like a double mastectomy patient opening the mailbox to find a Victoria's Secret catalog. What does this have to do with me, now, in my taking-to-bed, barren and beyond state?

Oh, Mom. I know our lies were always wishes.

But what now?

What the sharp knife fuck now?