I am not ok.
I am on my bed
So very not ok.
Because this grief shit is complicated.
Because every time I start to cry-
the thought of you steals in
the last tears never come
the ones that would cleanse me of that early sorrow
over her death.
And his, too.
But they can’t flow around the tears that come
Those never stop.
They’re never good in a queue
like good WASPy tears ought to be.
These ones come barreling through
noisy and obvious,
ugly in their insistence,
leaving me crumpled and exhausted
will this never end?
Not this crying jag-
the need to not think about you,
which causes me to think about you.
Like that damnable game.
But I want to lose this one,
Thinking of you is all I have of you
And these complicated tears.