Grief has a way of making a room out of the body, and asking us to live there, We learn the shape of silence the weight of a phone not ringing

the chair that stays occupied by absence
Still, we keep going, not because we are strong but because the morning arrives and asks for our hands

Love is not clean, it arrives with mud on its shoes with trembling breath with apologies that do not fix much

Grace is smaller than we want and larger than we deserve it is the hand that does not let go, when shame starts naming us

Truth is simple and hard

we hurt each other
we miss each other
we survive anyway

So we build with what remains
a bridge, a door, a place to sit
and we call that mercy