The Quiet Weight

Grief is not the storm you brace for
it’s the silence after the wind.
Not the cry that breaks the body,
but the hush that settles in.

It creeps beneath the morning light,
where coffee used to steam.
It lingers in the folded shirt
and every half-remembered dream.

It doesn’t knock or ask for time,
it slips into your bones.
It paints the edges of your smile
and calls the dark its home.

People ask when it will leave
you learn to say “someday.”
But grief, it isn’t something gone
just something made to stay.

You carry it, like breath and skin,
like stories not yet told.
It teaches you that missing things
is one way we still hold.

So let it sit beside your joy,
don’t banish it to night.
Grief, when named and gently seen,
can live beneath the light.