#grief is love with nowhere to go

[flwrkid14]

All the Tomorrows That Won’t Come

Tim doesn’t remember getting the call. He remembers the way his hands shook, though. Remembers the way the world stilled, the way the words—Danny’s gone—didn’t make sense in his head.

Danny Fenton wasn’t supposed to die. Not like this. Not alone in some basement, in a freak accident that no one saw coming. He was supposed to live. To be here.

To be his.

They were Tim and Danny, the campus couple, the ones who always had their hands tangled in each other’s jackets, who passed notes in physics class and made fun of each other’s handwriting. They were the ones people whispered about in the halls, the pair that would “probably get married someday.”

But there’s no someday now.

Tim will never be sixteen again, kissing his best friend before exams, laughing into the press of their lips because Danny was always so nervous before a test. He’ll never lean against Danny’s shoulder in the library, poking fun at his awful calculus notes, never sneak glances at him under cafeteria fluorescents, thinking God, I love him.

He will never get another sticky note left in his locker with barely legible handwriting that says, thinking of you. He will never sit across from Danny at some dingy coffee shop, listening to him complain about a lab report while stirring sugar into his tea. He will never hear Danny laugh so hard he snorts, never watch him roll his eyes but still lean in for a kiss anyway, no more whispered I love you against his temple before they part ways.

There won’t be any more Danny.

Tim is young, still. He knows this, logically. But he feels ancient. He feels hollow. Because the future is stretching out ahead of him, long and endless, and Danny isn’t in it.

And what’s the point of moving forward, if Danny isn’t there to meet him?

[hesaidshesaidsstuff]

As a final act of love to you, I'll become everything I told you I would

[unconditionallove3]

Stillness has a way of pulling everything to the surface. The dreams you have tucked away, the fears you don’t speak out loud, the memories that still echo, and the questions that still don’t have answers. It’s when your guard is down and the world is quiet that your soul speaks the loudest. Even in the weight of it all the wisdom is still unfolding, the thoughts and feelings are not here to torment you, there here to show you the truth of your heart, what needs your love, your attention, your healing. Allow the quiet to soften what the distractions may sharpen. Allow your soul to feel heard so that you can understand the map of your heart and move in the direction of what’s purposeful and true.

[starwarsgrl77]

[wordsforeachday]

This poem is a glimpse into my own experience with grief. How it unraveled me, reshaped me, and, in time, rooted me more deeply into life. Grief is the teacher I never sought, but one that continues to shape my understanding of love, loss, and what it means to be human.

[elwinged]

to love what is mortal—

unknown / @theblob1958 - the longevity of life and love / @birthmarkmike - A SELECTION FROM THE PRIVATE WORKS OF THE SEAFARER. / Dove Cameron on Instagram / Ellen Bass - The Thing Is / @deheerkonijn & @roselightfairy - rebuild your seawall (brick by brick) / Herbert Mason - Gilgamesh / @hhimringsideblog - The House That Fingon Built / The Haunting of Hill House (2018) / @clothonono - The Diver / @judas-redeemed / Anne Michaels - I Dreamed Again / Julia Gorst / Louise Glück - The Triumph of Achilles / unknown / Fred Chappell - Narcissus and Echo

happiest of happy birthdays, darling xiaohai! i love you a lot❤️

[bluevillainess]

Nonna's not coping with her brother's passing and I don't know how to help her hold herself together.

She's skipping meals, lashing out at everything, spiralling and talking about wanting to die. I knew it was going to be hard on her, but she seems intent on punishing herself and everyone for his loss.

Maybe if she hadn't seen him suffer so much at the end of his life? But there was no way she would've been anywhere but his bedside and no way he could have hidden it from her.

I know I still hear his pained cries and his fading weight against me. I can still hear him talking about the infection that got him before the cancer did.

I still hear her pleas in broken English, as she crumpled against a nurse and then her being lost in her own head and the hallway to his room.

I still see everything so clearly in my mind's eye and I understand where she's coming from... But I'm scared.

[halttunenkasper]

have yall ever let ur 2021 emotions punch u in the throat at 3am because i dont recommend

[youngmissmaple]

how lucky am I to have loved something enough to experience grief

[tilweareghosts]

What is grief, if not love persevering.

[hesaidshesaidsstuff]

Source | IG : @fleurentcue

[unconditionallove3]

Longing is not a wound, it’s a sign of your humanity ☯️

[starwarsgrl77]

[111lustforlife]

things have changed so much since you left.

do you know i'm no longer afraid of the night? because when a star twinkles a little too bright, i know it's you, watching over me. like you always did.

it will always be you.

[compo67]

breakup poem #1: the bath bombs on my bedroom floor

i'm staring at the bath bombs in the lush bag

on my bedroom floor, and

trying to decide what to do with them.

i kept the receipt, it's inside the bag.

i could regift them, but that feels strange and uncomfortable.

i should just get over it and return the three of them.

but the thought of handing them back to the gal who sold them to me, also feels strange and uncomfortable.

i walk away.

undecided.

they can sit there, on the floor of my bedroom, next to books i haven't read yet and paintings i keep meaning to hang up.

i don't have a need for them.

then i turn, stare at them some more from the doorway.

it's like the collage. the scarf. the book. the candle that says, "You're my favorite notification."

i can keep the book. destroy the collage and toss it into recycling, because it's upsetting and stupid and it just reinforces the foolishness in my heart. the candle i can burn, with the label facing away from me. the book i can keep and add to my collection. i'm glad i didn't inscribe it.

i used to work at a bookstore. every time someone sold a book inscribed to them, i felt a little sad. sometimes we say goodbye to things because we're better off without reminders.

the scarf presents another problem. it's a gift with nowhere to go. i kept your address. i kept the list of things you like and enjoy.

it just seems out of line to send anything without your knowledge, without your permission. but i have this scarf. i don't want to regift it. i don't want to donate it. i don't want to keep it.

some naive part of me wants to hold onto it on the off chance you'll magically appear on my doorstep. this version of me is more patient, willing, and optimistic. and this version of you is brave, unyielding, and confident. this version of you holds a bouquet of snapdragons, because why not? go big or go home, even if it's a knife of foolish hopes and catastrophic day dreams.

this version of you stands behind a door that i open.

and suddenly, everything i've ever lost comes back to me.

i want that moment.

i want more people to read poetry by Nayyirah Waheed

and Warsan Shire.

their poems ground me. teach me. show me.

that version of you doesn't exist.

even in my dreams, the dream crumbles under its own weight, splits in two, and hisses like static on an old tv screen.

it's just that... every time i've been asked to open the door, the love of my life has never showed up behind it.

i still have no idea what to do with the bath bombs.

maybe i can ask the gals if i could use their bath tub for a soak.

maybe then, immersed in whatever bath bombs are made of, i can understand you and the choices you made, the person you sided with, and the impossibility of us.

i want to throw them like snowballs.

crush them into powder.

to feel like i have power.

now, i walk away, out of the room and into my car.

i can drive. i can sleep alone. i can push forward.

i can, i can, i can.

i am "terrifying and strange."

the bath bombs can be returned until the end of january.

i can make my decision later. i can stall. i can--out of stupid, fumbling hope--day dream about that door.

one day, someone--likely not you--will be behind it.

i am what i remind myself of every time my heart breaks. i am "beautiful--something not everyone knows how to love."

i can keep the book. destroy the collage. burn the candle.

reality takes a back seat as i drive south.

i can, i can, i will.

[slhsawf]

“Grief is a change we didn’t want.”

— David Kessler