Grief is a scent that never leaves your lip,
with every breath, with every sip,
ever the twisting knife,
ever the fleshen twist.
It hovers over you,
you walk, a carrion,
the parched beaks of time,
waiting for you to pass on.
Like love, it leaves wounds behind
anchors in your heart, holes in your mind,
ever the remnant fog,
eyes, left blind.
What if I prepared for you,
and black was my perpetual dress,
what if burned the incense of mourning,
would you be less of a weight on my chest?
What if I threw you like ashes in the ocean,
let the sea have its way,
cremated dreams and memories,
a eulogy with nothing to say?
What if your colour was grey,
and we spoke in mono-tone,
like numb and algorithmic bots,
or hovered like mindless drones?
At the end of this all,
you’re too platonic, too addictive a distant lover,
so alone I leave you, to have your way,
perpetually a cloud over me to hover.