Exhaustion

Grief has a weight you can measure.

Not metaphor.

Not a figure of speech.

700 pounds,

sitting on my chest, my shoulders, my back

before my feet

hit the floor.

My joints know it first.

Ache in the knees

like I ran a marathon

I don't remember running.

My shoulders carry it

like a yoke I didn't ask for

and can't set down.

Some mornings

my body refuses

before my mind even asks.

Lie here.

Don't move.

What's the point of moving

when the weight moves with you.

People say

get some rest,

like sleep is a cure

for something that isn't tired,

it's crushed.

This isn't fatigue.

Fatigue ends.

I know fatigue.

Fatigue is a long day.

A bad night.

Fatigue sleeps it off

and gets up

lighter.

This doesn't lift.

I wake up

already behind.

Already spent

before the day

asks anything of me.

Brushing my teeth

is a task.

Standing in the shower

is a task.

The water hits my back

like it's asking me

to hold myself up,

and some days

I can't answer.

My arms are heavy

for no reason

I can point to.

No box lifted.

No mile walked.

Just the weight,

settled into the muscle,

like it lives there now.

I sit down

to rest

and the sitting

doesn't rest me.

There is no floor

under this tired.

It doesn't bottom out.

It just keeps going down.

People ask

did you sleep.

Yes.

Did it help.

How do you answer that

when you wake up

older than when you closed your eyes,

when rest and exhaustion

have started sharing

the same bed.

This is a body

carrying a son

it can't put down,

carrying him

into every motion,

every reach,

every breath

that takes more

than a breath

should take.

700 pounds

of a love

that has nowhere left to go

so it just

sits.

In the muscles.

In the marrow.

In the space

where he used to be.

I am not tired.

I am exhausted

I am what's left

after tired

gave up

and this

stayed.