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This wasn't written to explain grief. I wouldn't know how to do that even if I tried. It came after- after the noise, after the collapse- when everything is technically over but nothing is actually gone. When the walls still feel damp with it, and the floorboards hold onto every step like they're afraid of being left too. These poems are what's left in that space. Not answers. Not lessons. Just fragments. Half-breaths. Things I couldn't say out loud without breaking them. Moments where memory and feeling meet and don't resolve- just recognise each other and sit there. There's no closure in here. I don't trust it, to be honest. But there is something like company. For anyone who's lost, or is in the middle of losing, or just carries absence around like it belongs to them now. This isn't about endings. I don't think anything really ends like that. It's about what stays. What lingers. What refuses to leave quietly. Grief is just love with nowhere to land- still reaching, even when there's nothing left to reach for.

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