what right have i (to grief)?

what am i running away from —
the rain, or the cold night?
behind glass i have shuttered myself,
still,
several reflections away
from alone.

i have no answers, only anger.
it has anchored me immobile,
i have made myself up in paint and plastic
fibers, into pleasing shapes
that warm in the cold night, yes
the cold, cold night —
and i wonder, what right have i to grief?

it slips in along the ink of my gel pen
strokes, sinks into the page
and meshes with the
atoms, maybe,
i like to
think about it.

did i tell you i’m afraid of crying now?
black mascara bleeding from my eyelids,
the etchings just spreading from the
cracks in my body.
grief is a river, and i am
sedimentary.

one day, a dam will burst
much closer to my orbit,
and i’ll careen into the dark
— into the cold, cold night —
and there’ll be nothing left of me
but water.

maybe you can come over,
if it rains tonight.
i’ll put on some tea,
and we can drink that soft
leaf-water,
drain ourselves of time
and sleep.