I carry grief in back of my throat
center of my chest
corners of my eyes.
How long before
I’m no longer surprised
by its burning?
I carry you in back of my head
center of my gut
corners of mouth.
No one has more opinions,
cares as much,
or laughs as loud as us.
I carry my grief in your words,
“you know I think you’re beautiful,
but you look like hell”
they’re especially true today.