She gave to me
three moments.
I have kept them
nestled them in my palms
doves with soft broken wings.

They will not fit, you see.
I have tried to slip them beneath my tongue
but they dribble out in something like a weep
through the cracks of my teeth.
I have grasped them between my toes
but they are so heavy, sometimes they drip and slip away.
My fingers are much too cold for them
my veins are much too warm.
Perhaps they would fit over my eyes
for they, too, are salty.
But my eyelashes are often so bloody
it makes them sick.

You could say
to be blinded by grief
is better than never having seen at all.
But I have felt this to be a lie
and to drop them to the ocean
would be a sweetbitter goodbye.

I am strong
you must understand. Truly, I am.
Few things cannot be made to stop trembling
with the warm clasp of a hand.
But to be shook by a sorrow not your own
is a bending grief
I can no longer comprehend.

I cannot hold on.

Perhaps,
you can?