grief body – #2
8/28 – the grief body is a body i don’t feel i can share with anyone, because it has no right to be. even in text, the way you take it into yourself to imagine and inhabit the story. i stop before completion. is it because i don’t know what that abandon really feels like? i have no point of reference – even in the first unfurling of pleasure i wrapped my hands tight and made it obey a predetermined shape. i’ve never kissed the sky, though once my head filled with galaxies and plentiful stars – and then i was alone, still. can i feel that? with someone? i want to, badly.
the grief body also forgets because it can be cruel, and remembering everything focused into one fingertip or tongue can level a city of hope and pleasure. carefully-laid foundation demolished. i believe when it does, it is glad.
the grief body is not unique. too many of us live here.