I acquainted grief like a peculiar passerby.
Alluding to knowing it, we met somewhere before and
if anyone comes up to me asking if I know it,
I can say I remember: it having dressed oddly
but fitting.
Yet, if it passed by me again, every day, day and day again, it still wouldn't be familiar to me.
It's amorphously, indefinitely, a stranger.
Until I ask for its name.
Even then.
