It slides across my skin like suntan oil; 

It fills all my pores.

Quietly. Like sunburn, I feel it at night when the sheets rake my skin.

Grief reminds me when I pull on clean clothes and cotton punishes me for the monotony of living.

Grief is my sister’s quivering voice, steadfast and duty-bound.

Sand in my sheets.

A budding blister.

A hair in my throat.

A burn on the roof of my mouth.

Private pain that reveals itself intimately.

Grief is my mistress and she is committed.