THE CLOSET MYSTIC

I grieve a nameless loss.

I hold its ash in my hands.

I cannot even say what it was before it burned. 

But maybe

it isn’t what happened, but what never was,

what couldn’t be. 

No, I cannot lose

what I never had. 

I can’t tell what’s worse: having it ripped

from your hands, or always carrying

the heaviest emptiness. 

I’m not strong enough to hold

this vacuum. 

There’s nothing heavier than empty arms.