When you lose someone,
Your grief winds around you like a heavy scarf.
The weight of it tightens your throat and deadens your words.
It muffles the sounds of people passing on the street,
The sounds of laughter, or cars driving by,
Or the concerned and hesitant inquiries
Of friends. It all sounds the same.
Pain— an endless horizon of blank white snow.
You trudge numbly through the drifts,
The monotony interrupted only
by bright pin-pricks of agony:
Drops of crimson blood, blossoming stark against the snow.
Lost in the blizzard, you think the world has ended.
But no, the world has not stopped, has not paused.
Does not wait on your pain.
Does not see your tears or hear your whimpers in the dark.
The world moves indifferently on.
Only your world ground to halt, stopped spinning on its axis.
Only your sun flared and died.
Only you walk in a twilight winter of loss,
While those around you feel the warm breath of spring.
And that is perhaps the worst betrayal of all.