The empty shape of grief

Sometimes when I remember abbajaan now, I don’t feel sad anymore. The air has left the balloon. The empty shape of grief. How time wears away the edges. Rubs raw the points we pierce our chest with.
     Every day I pray for God to take away the grief of other things. Of things that sit outside the kerb and beg for attention. Clanging their tins against rails.

Already I am mourning the things I am yet to lose.

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