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