Powerful piece. “Grief is the only border that never closes” is a brutal opening, and it keeps that same depth all the way through. The images are strong without feeling forced, especially “Hands with nowhere to go,”“A chair that becomes an accusation,” and “we sift through what remains.” They feel lived, not borrowed.

What makes it hurt in the right way is the refusal to clean grief up. No false wisdom, no neat healing arc, just the hard truth that some losses do not leave, they “nest in the marrow” and we go on “not forward, exactly… / But carrying.” That honesty gives the whole poem real weight.