When the grief comes,
those who care, appear
as if from nowhere.
You thought you were
alone,
but you
are not.
So you use that time
to vomit out the poison,
the deep sadness.
The same story told,
again and again
to all who will listen.
So often,
even you, can’t bear
to hear it again.
Though, in time
the calls
slow,
as if your sorrow
has a time limit.
A small window,
like a pressure valve
turned halfway.
Just enough of a release
to prevent the explosion.
It’s no one fault,
all of us,
things to do
lives to be lived.
It is, the nature of things,
moving
forever
forward.
Then, it’s up to you.
They will pull you back
from the precipice
but
No one, is coming
to save you
from yourself.