The Space Between Wings
Grief never arrives like a storm —
It comes softly, like mist curling along the edges of morning,
Like the hush that lingers after laughter fades,
Like the quiet ache where words no longer reach.
They say when we lose someone,
The world does not shatter —
It simply forgets how to feel whole for a while.
The chair remains empty,
The familiar song dissolves into quiet,
And yet, the earth keeps breathing, unaware.
But listen closely —
Grief is not the absence of love,
It is love rearranged — waiting,
Hovering like a hummingbird at the edge of our awareness,
Small, impossible to hold,
But carrying every echo of what once was.
The wings never beat in rage —
They move gently,
Stirring the air between what we lost and what remains.
And in that space,
We find pieces —
A memory tucked in sunlight,
A familiar voice hidden in the wind,
The soft outline of love that never truly left.
We do not break —
We bend,
We learn to carry the absence,
Like the sky carries the weight of clouds —
Quietly,
Endlessly,
Until one day,
We remember how to rise again.
