We saw a picture of ourselves, laughing.

Heard a voice of ourselves, whispering.

She doesn’t exist anymore.

The words bubbled up from a mirror black lake, unseeable unconscious.

.

You asked me if the grief has moved. 

Grief doesn’t move.

It’s a monolith.

.

We walk around it,

in endless circles.

And it still stands, defiant, 

and rooted.

.

Before, it was molten lava,

burning,

explosive, 

swallowing.

.

Now, you can hear the quiet vibration of stillness.

Now, it is cold beneath my palm, 

almost calming, 

still towering.

.

I got used to it.

.

Predictable.

Constant.

Comfortable.

.

That was my brother once, too.

.

Living, then rock.

.

And one day,

water, wind, life,

will turn it 

to ash.

.

Just like me.

Just like him.

.

My grief is immovable, but it is not unknowable. 

It is part shadow,

part monument. 

Part of me.