If You Were Dead or Still Alive

If you were dead

I think I’d know how to grieve you.

There’d be an ending—

a line I could point to

and say

that’s where you stopped existing

in my world.

I’d cry

in ways that made sense.

I’d miss you

in ways people understand.

There would be flowers.

Silence.

A kind of permission

to let you go.

But you’re not dead.

You’re somewhere—

breathing,

living a life

that doesn’t include me.

And that’s the part

no one prepares you for.

How do you mourn

someone who still wakes up?

Who still laughs,

still says your name maybe—

just not the way they used to?

You exist

just far enough away

to feel unreachable,

just close enough

to keep hurting.

There’s no ceremony

for this kind of loss.

No clear ending.

No final goodbye.

Just the slow, quiet ache

of learning

that someone can be alive

and still be gone.