Grief

I've been trying to write a letter to you
since you visited me in my dreams
days after to you left this earth.
With all of these emotions,
I struggle to find the words to express
what it's like to lose a giant.
I worshiped you,
in a way.
God gave you to me
before I knew I needed you.
He knew 

and you knew,
and it seems that now,
more than ever,
you cross my mind in infinite ways.
Is this what losing a parent feels like?
I don't desire to do this again,
although inevitable.
And I think about the mortality of my two remaining parents,
and I beg God to spare me-
to just give me a little more time to
prepare myself for the kind of indefinite
and sporadic
pain I'm bound to feel.
And these moments of grief cut so sharply,
so suddenly...
the unexpected tears flow and
all I can really do is just
let it rain.
I rain for you.
Even in the sun, I rain.
And I'm embarrassed and ashamed,
sometimes,
to tear up in a bar
or while walking down a crowded street
or to just sob for you in bed,
crying myself to sleep.
Is this grief?
It feels selfish.
And I hate that my words aren't poetic enough,
that the songs I began to write about you-
inspired by you-
have gone untouched and unfinished.
My grief is as peculiar as the nature of our relationship.
Where are you and what are you doing?
I want to know.
Do you cry for your children?
I cry for you.

Forever your child/sister/friend/fan.