Everything I've ever loved
smelt of grief.

Grief is the only smell
I instantly identify.

Grief is the only color
to follow me wherever I go.

Grief lives in my best friend's hooded eyes.
Grief lives in coffee shops I don't visit anymore.

Grief visits my apartment often.
It hugs me tight for hours,
Then kisses my forehead
And leaves without a goodbye.
Family is forever, family never says goodbye
Once it whispered before leaving.

Grief is an uninvited guest to my birthdays
Family isn't guests, it says.
My last birthday was a few months ago.
My pillow stayed wet for days.
That was the longest
grief ever stayed over.

Grief is your child
born out of wedlock,
My last boyfriend said
Half joke and half truth.
He helped me raise the child.
He fed, he bathed,
he sung lullabies
And bought it toys.
By the time he left,
the child grew bigger than ever,
bigger than its mother.

Yesternight,
Grief came unannounced.
I was alone,
cutting vegetables for dinner.
Grief looked into my eyes and asked,
'Do you remember our first meeting?
Do you remember anything about it?'
I remembered my mother
cutting ladies finger for dinner,
Our pale yellow vegetable basket,
The redness of tomatoes,
The grey kitchen floor,
The dim light,
And Grief.
Grief was my twin back then.
Grief was my twin sister,
whom I ate tomatoes with.
Why don't you eat tomatoes anymore?
You used to love it'
Grief said, wiping off my tears.

Yesternight,
I ate tomatoes after twenty years.
Grief doesn't smell of tomatoes anymore.