The song you showed me is now my favorite.
Tea you made me when I was for the first time in your house,
I drink it all the time
Snowdrops, cakes, siting outside, sun, color blue and cats.
I've never really liked those things,
But I like you.
Everything you adore, becomes my favorite thing.
Is that how love feels?
~ER.
Where to put it, how to tame its insurmountable spirit.
How to sing it lullabies for my voice always crackles up.
How to call out its name without fearing the worst.
What to say to it when it comes running to me like a child.
What to whisper in its ears so as to soothe its wild nerves.
I know I can very well discard it, get rid of it forever, but if that would have been possible, i would not be writing this poem today titled, "what do I do with my grief"
I know not how it's so capable of being so alive when I, the harbourer, has died so many times.
Isn't this grief that I carry in my belly, my child?
If that's the case, it should have died long time ago.
But here it is, chuckling and stretching its limbs, looking at me with its endearing eyes, waiting to be picked up with utmost affection.
It’s about how gentle you can be; with the rain that you’re touching, the grass you’re running on, the sunset you’re watching, the hands you’re holding, the flower you’re picking, the heart you’re feeling, the breath you’re taking; it’s about how gentle you are