thin

it’s true, though-
some feelings are so big
they stare back at us

some slide down through the
cracks in our bedroom doors so
even in our heaviest nights
we wake, drenched in them

some feelings chase us for years before
we find they have no end,
learn to age into them

sometimes you try and capture the
thin sound of your own breaking, turn it into a
poem like the
glass over the spider on the
kitchen floor

and sometimes, for all our forward worry
we are irretrievably unready
for what will undo us

it becomes the quiet, unassuming sunday
that brings us the paramedics, the broken glass,
the silhouette of grief that burns
the prints from our fingers.

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