Not grief, really.
But something like standing
in the doorway after
everyone has gone home.
The room still warm
with their laughter,
chairs askew,
glasses of wine
half empty on the table.
You listen,
not for music,
but for what it leaves behind.
A kind of silence
that presses gently
on your ribs,
reminding you
that you're alive,
and won’t be
forever.
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