That Strange Act of Writing

I do not know what to do with this grief,
So I put pen to paper –
That strange, ancient act of communicating with oneself,
A tether when the mind reels,
Drawn in by a sadness not vast, but intense,
Specific as a face I can no longer touch.

How fortunate is the one who writes,
For when the world offers no distraction
And the silence is too loud with absence,
The ink becomes a movement, a way to breathe.
I have no profound insights to offer the dark,
Only the dull ache of a rupture,
The mystery of why human bonds must break,
Why the narrative ends in destruction
When we only wanted the story to last.