Weep

It’s not in the quiet moments, but the still ones, where we visit graveyards in our minds. 

We walk slowly down hallways and stand in front of closed doors, rolling keys between the tips of our fingers, lingering on the feel of the metal, biting down on our lip, tasting our own blood and twitching as a cold chill thunders just beneath our skin. 

Knowing the agony that lies beyond the door, but honoring our affliction, the other hand reaches for the handle, standing there watching as in a dream, we shouldn’t lift the key from deep in our pocket, but find ourselves fumbling about forcing the key to fit.

It is in the stillness that we want to sit down and be haunted by ghosts and play with demons. The heart pleads to turn the handle and the head screams to walk away. 

A rush of beauty as we open the door, a sense of wonder, then an aching, as we wallow in blinding anguish, almost laughing as tears fall heavy, our face red and broody, crying at the sharp painful bites of loss for such moments, holding our chests, gripping our hearts, grief-stricken, somber and morose we finally weep.