Before the night ends

I️ think about you on all types of nights.

The sorrow I adore.

The seam of all my poems.

I️ know I️ can’t read this to you.

I do however, know you’re reading this to me.

-abuela

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Death isn’t the end

We always come back.

In the night breeze that kisses your skin.

In the trees that grow a little taller than the rest.

The songs that catch our hearts before our attention.

In every child that looks at us in bewilderment.

In the flowers that know the true powers of the sun.

Amongst the crickets and sounds of moving cars.

We always come back.

Grieving 

No one tells you how grief works. It doesn’t end with the funeral. It comes back in seasons and sits comfortably in your lap, palms and heart. You know this sadness it taste the same every year. Some days, you think of her and smile. Other days, you weep your tears dry. You pull the weeds and they grow again. It never end. Grief is the ex-lover that calls every now and then.