Newton’s Cradle

Throughout the day

he’s here, then gone.

Just a flicker,

a phantom,

in the corner of my eye.

Bereavement hallucination?

Energy cannot be destroyed, they say.

So if it only transforms,

then tell me—what way?

Is there awareness of death?

Does consciousness spark?

Like wires and fire?

Or does the current retire

into soil,

into root,

into worm,

into fruit?

Or do we drift,

beyond the body’s suit?

I’ve got people

brilliant and kind

but only he

made me feel seen,

whole,

aligned.

So I beg him back.

Just one more scene,

for my unfinished script,

an unfinished dream.

Some days I move,

Some days I freeze.

Duty pulls me forward,

grief drops me to my knees.

It’s restless apathy,

a gnawing crawl.

This slow motion breakdown.

Into grief’s gaping maw.

Stuck inside Newton’s Cradle,

click-clack, click-clack—

one step forward, two steps back.

His movies unwatched,

his books are unread.

It all sits on a shelf

collecting dust instead.

An unfinished life.

An unfinished vow.

And I’ll never understand…

Why him? Why now?

So, I choke the future, 

keep it small.

One day at a time, 

or I lose it all.