There are days like nights, and nights like days.
Long, and longer, shrinking in the facsimiles of time;
progression rolls regressively on the hours
of grief, we fall backward through our mothers
into the tombs, rung ribs,
lit commas on the green.

This is our volume, bodies form letters and when laid
disentangle the words that waited, waited
so arduously to be put to rest; my 2am pounds,
the head has two temples but no grassy hills for me
to bury my iterations. I am left
repeating the mistakes of those before me.

And after me. And under me. And above me.
How foolish to think we can think our way out of living.
Nothing stops ache – for we will always ache.
Nothing stops doubt – for we will always doubt.
Nothing stops anger – for we will always be angered.
What have the greatest minds achieved?

Why we are aching.

Why we are doubtful.

Why we are angry.

The expertise do not revoke the squelch of suffering
ebbing up the sternum, the flippantry of emotion,
heave of a stone from out our mouths when we cry.
Blankets do more service in such times
than the grandest pages of the finest musings
of philosophers endless mapping
of the incremental details
of a broken heart.