It waits for me.
A spiraling tendril
a shroud
an envelope, a cloak
I make my way from daily tasks
into nighttime rituals
and there it is.
my grief.
patiently waiting to envelop
me with its familiarity
not a comfort, really
a new habit.
I find my way to a peaceful
sleeping place
only to awake
and it is there.
My grief waits for me
like bookends.
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