The house you built still stands,

Ornaments hang on walls you shaped.

The chair you sat in remains 

while Christmas lyrics choke my throat.

Grief is a bite that leaves no marks,

Like a rabid dog, cornered.

it does not bark

nor wag its tail.

It does not whimper,

or growl.

It snaps when you least expect

sinking itself deep into skin,

ripping out a chunk of what was mine.

A part of me, you once filled.

It will stay a gaping hole,

an open wound that does not bleed.

Where loud laughter cracks like cheap spirits,

only muffled words reach my ears.

Shivering through December’s chills

while Christmas hangs its garlands,

on doors your warm hands opened

before they turned cold.