For LZ’s Mom

𝑀𝑖𝑠𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑛𝑜 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑒.
Still, the ache is real—and yours not to name.

Loss invites platitudes—tidy, thoughtless, banal.
But sometimes grief plays an unwelcome encore,
Egotistically offering just one more,
Wrapping you up in a suffocating shawl.

Hope often whispers in tiny, blooming threads—
A name, a laugh, dreams forming in our beds.
And then—a hush. A pause. A breath unheld.
Unmarked calendars. Our joy, quietly felled.

I have little—no answers, gift, or light.
Only this: I see you in the fight.
I know the shape of silent pain,
And how it circles, then gnaws at your brain.

There’s an outsized hole carved in your heart,
And some voids aren’t meant to be filled.
How could they, with such thoughts unspilled?
I offer no wisdom and little poetic art.

Only this: I see you. I say your name.
𝑀𝑖𝑠𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑛𝑜 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑒.