Holding space for grief,
even without words...

I needed to write this poem
with a pen...

The week between tinsel
and fireworks, where time is...

This poem existed
in the future...

We are somewhere
between the days before...

Let me take words
and paint you a picture...

I remember the words,
the ones we sacrificed...

Sometimes inspiration
comes in a bolt...

Every word has meaning,
how do we all know, that...

Autumn came to whisper -
clinging on is futile...

In the winter of the
frozen prayers...

All those summers,
when innocence...