Comfort
There is a strange comfort in grief.
Perhaps because it blankets me.
No one sends flowers
For the death of a dream.
The absence of fragrance
Is like the absence of you.
What’s the point of breathing?
I do notice the strangest thing is happening.
As I cruise along toward home,
And business goes on as usual
For everybody else,
For some reason…
The soft music I’m playing in my car
Just sounds more beautiful.
Everything I see as I look around the world
Just seems more beautiful.
It is so strange
That at this sad time
The whole world should appear more beautiful.
Why?
And then I get it.
It no longer has competition from you.
John H. Bidwell
Bookmarks
Share
Print
Save