Grief is a door

stuck in my throat, like a swollen frame—

hot. thick. unswallowable.

My chest hurts—

pressure behind bone,

breath catching

on the way out.

And the cruelty is how clean it was.

A text.

A sentence on a screen

that changes the world

without sound or ceremony.

You’re gone.

No room, no fur under hand,

no last warmth—

just words, flat and final,

delivered like an update.

I’m devastated.

And outside of it—

not a part of your house,

not part of your moment.

Grieving in the hallway,

staring at a closed door.

You were an old man.

Sixteen at least—

missing teeth, drooling constantly,

carrying yourself like a landlord

who’d survived too much

to be polite about it.

You slept on me while I slept—

chest or side, wherever you chose—

your heavy purr was a ruling:

stay here, keep breathing, you’re mine.

You peed on everything

and I lost my mind about it—

often.

You would blink slow and calm—

unbothered.

As if my rage was weather.

I said goodbye two days ago

and my chest tightened,

recognising the ending

before you did.

Distance makes it surreal.

My body keeps searching

for the last known truth:

You’re just over the fence.

We still have time.

But you aren’t.

And I can’t make my heart accept

a world that changed

without me.

For a minute, I was “mum”.

I carried the rituals.

And now the ending happened

in someone else’s hands.

But the love still lands here,

in my throat,

in my ribs,

in the quiet where your weight used

to be.

Goodnight, old man.

I hope wherever you went

there’s sun on your bones

and softness everywhere you land.