Grief, My Houseguest

here is the key to my ribs—  

stay as long as you need.  

i have made space for you  

between the coffee cups and the curtains,  

between the unread books  

and the unsent letters.  

make yourself at home.  

drink from my silence,  

sleep in the hollow of my throat,  

tread softly on the creaking floorboards  

of my remembering.  

i will not ask when you’re leaving.  

i know some guests  

outstay their welcome  

only because they have nowhere else to go.  

so take the spare room,  

the one with the cracked window  

where the moonlight leaks in.  

let the walls learn the shape of your shadow.  

one day, you will forget  

which of us is the visitor.  

one day, i will wake  

and find you’ve folded the sheets,  

left the key on the counter,  

and taken only what you came for—  

a handful of my quietest storms.  

until then,  

here is the key.  

here is the kettle.  

here, the unlit lamp.  

stay.