“…and what is grief but love persevering?” – Vision, WandaVision
My last lover had the subtle lull of lilacs, the effervescence of heaven and any haven – a whiff of safety, but she thought I smelled of grief. I could tell from the faint sadness in her eyes, the kind decline of her brows, you see, I brought my loss to every date. She thought this was sad and smiled at the floating tragedy she looked upon, but I tell myself it is beautiful.
My love, I’ll carry your presence with me. Your essence will abide even when you’re gone. There’s a place in my chest, a cleft for all the lovers who left and so, your blood will flow in my veins and your aura will envelop me. I’ll carry your lilac in my lungs and let it stain every breath I draw purple. I’ll carry the embroidery of your form on my retina and let it shape my vision.
You cannot grieve what you never loved so I will write love poems about you, to teach myself how to love someone I am slowly forgetting because in writing about you, I practice remembering pieces of myself I no longer have. In truth, I give bits of myself to everyone I love and what I mean by this is that when their love dies, I am a dead thing too because grief poems are just love poems on dark mode.
I become a malnourished flower in a garden I was tasked to tender. Time after time drifting between the realms of withering and growth; cocooned in darkness and then reaching for the light.
What else is grief love but this contrariety of states?