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“Grief, when it comes like this, arrives without a knock. It wraps around the wrist when I hear a song I don’t skip fast enough. It sits in the passenger seat when I pass a street I swore I’d never return to. Some feelings never got spoken. Some wounds were too polite to bleed. I let them rot quietly like fruit forgotten in a fridge corner, sweetness gone sour, but still too familiar to throw away.” — Maimoona Abidi
Grief, when it comes like this,
arrives without a knock.
It wraps around the wrist
when I hear a song I don’t skip fast enough.
It sits in the passenger seat
when I pass a street I swore I’d never return to.
Some feelings never got spoken.
Some wounds were too polite to bleed.
I let them rot quietly
like fruit forgotten in a fridge corner,
sweetness gone sour,
but still too familiar to throw away.