As I open my eyes the morning scurries about

gaining purchase in all of my senses

from the blatant light spilling through the window,

and the chill clinging to the edges of the night before

 

And I’ve already been thinking a lot

about holes, the empirical shape of loss

and how they relate to grief

 

In the realm of my sorrow these shapes

aren’t ruled by the laws of physics.

Sometimes the holes visit me as colors,

often red and angry at the thievery

 

The worst color is grey, the most forlorn of colors

because I can’t see hope beyond the slate-colored chasm

 

Sometimes the holes come to me in my dreams

as desperate, chimeric shapes smashing into my nights!

 

Grief never stops filling your absence with voids.

It’s inevitable, I’ve learned. But when time and I allow a forgiveness of the pain

the holes become smaller, but they do not go away - far from that!

Their colors transform too, becoming less brilliant

across the wounded hues of crimson, ash and blue