grief
its soft, silent paws tucked underneath it as it sleeps in the corner of the room for hours, days, years at a time, all at once tangle with your feet as you try to walk, and careful as you may step, you do not decide whether or not grief trips you again.
you sleep in the corner too, the light, restless sleep of one who expects to be disturbed. i’m sorry for disturbing you again. i can hear you breathing, hear the dry amusement in your voice as it dips to say “howdy”, catching on the vowels in a way my accent could never match.
sleep again, for the rest of the day. i’ll disturb you tomorrow.