metaphoricallove

Where do I put all this grief? Where can I store it?

Should I preserve it through fermentation, breaking something simple into something even simpler? Should I wait patiently until this feeling transitions into something more digestible, more tolerable? Is the breakdown worth the breakthrough—if at all?

Should I splay it across my walls, drowning in shades of blue until I run out? And then what? What will we do once our supply of the blues runs dry—if it ever does?

Maybe we could freeze the grief in a Polaroid—yes, that’s it.

We’ll freeze the moment in film, storing it in my attic forever. But nothing lasts forever; you know that, don’t you? That Polaroid will wave goodbye at the 100-year mark. So what shall we do?

What shall we do with all this grief, where can we store it? And what about all this love—how do I control it?