What’s its shape

“How’ve you been?” 

A dull stab to a stubborn wound.
I share that 12 hours of my day are fulfilling.

I work,
I problem solve,
I learn.

I withhold the rest of it.
The aimless hours
ruminating
on the could have beens
the losses.

It's when I'm alone the fear spreads.
Most days the void is tangible.
It’s shapeless.
I want to label it to know it fully.
I’d know its name and greet it warmly.

Loss spreads.
Grief grows.

I think too often of the last conversation.
The ending.
And when it all feels too deeply rooted
I'm reminded
that the anxiety will find
a different power source.
The sadness will attach to something new.

I begin to make peace with the idea
that I can still have you
in sadness and grief.
In honoring the memories.

And so I'll wait
for the days in which
my heart feels less a part of your own.
When I stop visualizing
moving in unison.

Until then, they'll ask,

“How are you?”

“I’m doing great, thanks for asking,”

My heart,
my heart, though.
My heart won’t know
it’s own shape for some time