Time Heals All Wounds

grief is not a wound.
it does not slowly ebb and dwindle,
like shiny, raised scar tissue
that glistens pink under shower sprays. 
no. grief is a seed,
a fledgling bird
singing in the hollow of my rib cage,
growing bigger and burlier
as it nurses on my arteries -
until the too-broad shoulders of the flowers
press soft against my sternum.
soon bits of hollyhock and heather
will sprout from the seams of my jackets,
and the birdsong that goes
in four-four rhythm with my heartbeat 
will rise in pitch, drowning out the rumble of the subway,
and will be too big for me to contain.
because grief is not a wound,
does not diminish or dilute itself
over time -
and with every sun that rises in your absence,
I miss, I miss, I miss and 
miss you so much more.