a dull, scratched silence

Grief is....something else. Look at us, reaching hungrily for the next moment, clinging desperately to the last, not once embracing the color of the invisible present. Talking logic, and numbers, and plans, and frantically fitting our mash of heartstrings and tears into boxes and charts. Immeasurable things. And in my selfishness, I'm watching, wondering which one of us will be next, and what it would be like if I were truly, truly alone. Tiptoeing and whispering. "Don't touch that, you'll break it." These things.