Before he passed,
grief was not something he left me in his will,
and I couldn’t muster a tear.
So what’s a man to do when his emotions remain idle?
Practicality becomes the default.
Take care of affairs,
find a semblance of balance,
in comforting others,
albeit, still emotionless.
I don’t do well in social situations,
and only when I recluse to the comforts of solitude,
did I find the fortunes of his will,
flood my heart and clutch at me with volcanic vigour.
Alone in my car,
alone at work,
alone with a book,
alone in the sea,
I wish I didn’t inherit a single thing,
even a coffee cup becomes a thing of guilt.