No Poetry

When all the words have been said, silence remains. That same thick, sticky silence in which you can hear time passing without permission. The world seems the same: the sun still sets to rise again, the grass still sways, the wind still pretends to know where it is blowing. Only inside, something has shifted a couple of millimetres, and everything is no longer in its place.

It's funny and sad at the same time - it's like you're crying, and then suddenly you laugh because you can't help it. Because grief doesn't have to be beautiful, and there is no poetry in it, no matter how hard we search for the right words. Life just goes on. Even if someone in it is no longer walking beside you.

Sad, not touching. Like a bouquet at a funeral - restrained, but real.