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Grief (i)

Where do I room this grief?

Every aisle has the pain:
one corner lets me see through her weeping eyes.

In the corridor lies a box of the garments that once felt her warmth in the coldest days.
This particular section is known as the Circular Room
wherein all the comforting lies are said, never acted upon.

One step run in a lap is a heavy load.
One room is another made—painted with cerulean-blue acrylic paint.

There is another room where there is a canvass
a plainly white canvass that I cannot embellish my tears with, so I will cover it with my blood.

Every room is a room filled,
yet empty.

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