Sorrow is not a passing tempest.
It is the sea you adapt to dwell beside,
its currents surging unexpectedly,
its stillness just as burdensome.
It lingers in the empty chair,
the melodies playing to an absent audience,
the echoes of joy
that now seem out of place.
They say time is a healer,
yet time does not obliterate—
it shows you how to bear absence
like a part of yourself,
to move forward with a perpetual ache,
to discover beauty in moments of fracture.
Sorrow is love
without a place to reside.
And so it finds a home within you,
transforming your heart into a shrine
for what the world can no longer embrace.
Through the Fog 
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