I keep dressing my grief in different ways,

hoping someday it can be invited to a timeless party

where everything is embraced

regardless of the beholder's eyes.

 

Yesterday, I was with someone, sharing my sorrow

that I'm merely breathing to survive.

They smiled, their smile seemingly endless,

and confirmed they are living to breathe.

They suffer from asthma, while I still have control over my lungs.

 

At times, I still marvel at my hands and wear time

on my wrist. I step into it, and sometimes I step out

to observe the wrinkles attempting to fade

into the arrival of dawn. My grief resembles theirs,

yet I still find ways to escape and slip into sleep.