Grief doesn’t knock anymore. It has a key. It slips in while I’m laughing. And sits quietly until the smile dies. I carry it in my posture. Hunched shoulders that remember. What it’s like to hold everything and still drop it. I’ve lost people who didn’t die. They just faded, Like a song you love but forget the lyrics to. And somehow, that hurts worse than funerals— Because there’s no closure, just echoes. I see them in strangers’ eyes. Hear them in playlists I avoid. Smell them in seasons. It’s like my body made a shrine. Of every loss I tried to bury. Now even sunlight feels like a eulogy. Grief made a bed in my spine, Curled up like a cat. That refuses to leave. Some days, I carry it with grace. Others, I drag it behind me Like a dead limb that still remembers how to dance. People ask why I’m so quiet. Because grief doesn’t shout— It murmurs, Telling you you’ll never be whole again, That everything from now on. Will be a little less colorful- A little less yours. I used to scream into pillows, Now I just sigh. There’s nothing left to rage against. Just absence, And the cruel consistency of remembering every detail. Except how to forget. But I still set an extra place. At the table inside my chest. Because even if they’re gone— Their absence still eats with me. And some nights, It’s the only guest that shows up on time.