How I Grieve

I grieve
the same way I do everything:
analytically,
slicing open memories
to see what makes them tick.
Sorrow wells inside
swells in tides
and tries
to overtake me,
but I grieve
the same way I do everything,
so I wrap my mind around the tide
and force it back inside.

I grieve
the same way I do everything:
cheerfully,
finding bright spots
in dark corners.
I mourn you with laughter
instead of tears,
and though I fear I am not understood,
I know you would see the good
in bringing light to this darkness,
and anyway,
I do not know another way.

I grieve
the same way I do everything:
thoroughly,
unreservedly,
candidly and frankly.
There is not a thought
that I have caught
in this mangled web of sorrow
which I have held back
from scrutiny,
which I have not displayed
for outside eyes to see.
I don't know if those eyes
can see the same light as mine,
but this is all I know to be.

I grieve
the same way I do everything:
I put the pen to paper
and my fingers tell me how I feel.