Fortnight
A face grief wears when it has nowhere else to go
Grief wears many faces.
Some are a messy home.
Others invisible,
but felt every minute of the day.
Fortnight I haven’t cleaned my house in a fortnight And have been feeding dinners to the dog. Rose petals, paper-thin and withered, Mingle with dust to weave a carpet on the floor. Cobwebs instead of pictures on the walls, Leaks in the roof drip-dripping salt As I pace thousands of steps down the hall, Still wondering if this is all my fault. A kiss that turned to wound that never healed, The fingers that left bruises of your love, Runes on the skin mapping the lust in ink — The final one unfinished, trailing off… — 20 Mar 2026 Text + Soul © Lana E. Taylor Steal my breath, not my words. ᚂᚐᚅᚐ ᚈᚐᚔᚂᚑᚏ
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