The problem with grief, I decided,
is its torpid pace; a dull misery that sticks
like quicksand.

Why can't a heart break quickly,
like a treasured thing, shattered all at once,
so life could begin again (or not)?
At least the breaking of it
would be fast.

But not this death.
Here, grief is measured in tiny shards,
each breath eked out, insufficient,
and if you can't bear it,
wait for the next, and then the next.

Picture yourself on your knees
sobbing, and praying,
but you're not kneeling,
and the whispered shred of prayer
is a false attempt.

In the next breath
you're out the door, driving away,
running away,
trying to overtake relief that remains
just out of reach.