Grief Written

 Every Sunday morning starts the same. I make myself a strong cup of coffee and curl into the corner of my bed. I clean my apartment, Strip my sheets, And write a grocery list for the week. This morning the cat and I stayed in the bed, She slept atop of your pillow that still faintly smells like you. Carefully set aside the night before, showering before I crawled into the sheets as not to erase the smell of you. The day before, I made your bed for the last time and wondered if it at all smelt like me. Strands of my hair were strewn across the pillowcase, evidence that I was there. I swept through the hallways and rooms, a ghost lingering in the familiarity of our relationship.  All I’ve ever known of grief is how to grieve the living, It’s your heart walking around outside of your chest. It’s odd to see something so intimately apart of you, scanning items at the self check out at the grocery store — although, that couldn’t be you. You hate self checkout. I’ve never suffered a death, a