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.
Through the Fog 