The Space Between Waves

I.

First comes the drowning—

the weight of absence pressing down

like dark water in winter.

Time fragments into before and after,

sharp as broken glass.

I count breaths like rosary beads,

each one a small victory

against the undertow.

II.

They say grief comes in waves,

but they don't tell you about the spaces

between them—how empty rooms

become caves of echoes,

how your coffee cup still makes

two rings on the table

before you remember.

III.

The world spins madly on:

traffic lights change,

dogs need walking,

bread goes stale.

Such ordinary betrayals,

these constant reminders

that time refuses to freeze

around the shape of your leaving.

IV.

I find pieces of you everywhere—

a forgotten note,

your handwriting swimming

through sudden tears.

A lone sock behind the dryer,

your favorite song on the radio.

Each discovery a small earthquake,

aftershocks of a greater breaking.

V.

Slowly, like spring after permafrost,

memories begin to thaw.

I can speak your name now

without my voice cracking,

can tell stories that end in laughter

instead of silence.

The pain doesn't lessen—

it just makes room for other things.

VI.

Years pass like migrating birds,

and grief becomes a quiet companion,

no longer the stranger

who broke down my door.

I carry you differently now,

like a river carries starlight—

not a burden, but a brightness

woven into the flow.

VII.

And sometimes, in dreams,

we meet in that timeless place

where loss has no meaning.

You smile that familiar smile,

and I understand at last:

love doesn't end when breathing does.

It just changes form,

like water into cloud into rain.

VIII.

Morning comes again,

as it always does.

I wake to find your absence

has carved new spaces in me—

spaces that fill, slowly,

with understanding:

how letting go

doesn't mean forgetting,

how remembering

can be a form of joy.

IX.

Time doesn't heal—

it transforms.

Like a garden growing

over ancient stones,

life blooms around the fact

of your absence.

And I tend to both:

the flowers and the stones,

the grief and the gratitude,

knowing now that they

were always meant

to exist together.