hoping to soften the edges of your grief,
you join in on the ritual of participation:

put flowers in a vase,
walk until your legs ache

pull weeds from the garden,
and watch them grow back

look at the sky every chance you get,
until briefly, you forget

cry loudly and uncontrollably,
often in public, always to your best friend

use your expensive makeup,
no longer waiting for celebration

drink an overpriced, wrong colored coffee,
sit outside with your neighbor and get grill marks on your thighs from the metal lawn chair

sway between strangers in a crowded room,
close enough to touch

stare long and hard at yourself in the mirror,
getting lost in the reflection,
trying to catch a glimpse of what's next