Grief comes like an unwelcome guest you can't turn away, settling into the spaces of your home, a shadow under every light. He wears your skin, a second flesh, tighter, more suffocating, the unbearable heaviness of being without.

And what do you do with all this grief? You pack him into the hollows of your body, a suitcase too full to close, spilling over with the things you can't leave behind. You carry him, a stone in your pocket, smooth from the constant touch of your fingers seeking answers on its surface. And with no regard to your attempts, he will always reside within you, it's a cruel infestation with no cure.

You try to make room for him, set a place at the table, pour a glass of wine he will never drink, but it spills over, too much and never enough. You try to learn to walk with him, but he's a limp you can't shake, a partner who steps on your feet and never learns to walk alongside you.

Instead, you learn to dance with him. You spin with your grief in the pause before sleep takes you. You ask questions he never answers, whisper to him in the dark. Grief, you discover, doesn't leave; he simply changes shape.