Slow Loss Poem by David Self

It doesn't fall all at once—
no storm, no fire,
just the quiet drip of days
wearing the stone down.

First the little things vanish:
a familiar cup,
a favorite shirt,
the way the light once leaned kindly
through the window.

Then the larger pieces loosen,
sliding out of reach—
friends who stop calling,
dreams that curl at the edges,
rooms that echo too much.

Nothing shatters.
It unravels, thread by thread,
until I am left holding strands
too thin to weave together.

And the cruelest part
is how the world looks the same—
sky still turning,
trees still leafing—
while inside me,
everything is quietly leaving.