Grief tastes like honey
Sticky between the ribs,
slow-burning, gold-drunken,
a pulse in the molars,
a sweetness that won’t leave.
Time is a jar
you can’t close
and every memory drips
through the cracks of your fingers—
lick it, let it burn,
let it coat your throat
with the weight of what was.
Sometimes the honey melts
and sunlight pours like applause
across your kitchen counter,
and you remember
you can rise
even if it’s crooked,
even if it’s trembling,
even if your hands
still carry the taste of gold and ash.
Grief is not a body to bury
It is a liquid cathedral
you walk through barefoot,
floor sticky, light fractured,
stained-glass moments
you can taste in your mouth.
The floors remember you
before you remember them
and the walls hum
a tune you can’t hum back.
Immortality is in the mouth,
in the hands,
in the spine that refuses to fold,
in the small acts
of keeping yourself
even while losing everything.
Sip,
swallow,
stay.