#Six Feet Is Such a Small Distance

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broken vine
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The coffee’s gone cold again.
I keep forgetting to drink it
because every night ends the same—
me sitting at this crooked table,
talking to a sky that never answers back.

I tell it about my day
like I used to tell you.

How I passed by that little store downtown
and they were playing the song
you used to hum under your breath
when you thought no one was listening.
And for one stupid second
I turned around with a smile already forming,
expecting to find you beside me again.

God, grief is cruel like that.
It lets you hallucinate warmth
before reminding you
your hands are empty.

I still set two cups out sometimes.
Still leave space beside me in bed.
Still catch myself saving stories
to tell you later.

There is no later anymore.

The night feels heavier without your voice in it.
Even the moon looks tired of watching me unravel.
I sit here whispering your name into steam and silence,
pretending the wind might carry it
somewhere your bones can hear.

They buried you only six feet under.
Six feet—
that is such a small distance.

I have seen taller walls.
I have climbed steeper things.
Yet somehow
you are farther away than the stars.

I speak to you
and the earth keeps you.
I beg for one sign, one sound, one impossible miracle,
but you do not answer me.
You do not talk to me anymore.

And I hate how life keeps moving
like losing you was a small event,
like the world did not split open that day.

People tell me you are “at peace.”
But what about me?

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What about the man
still sitting here at midnight
with bitter coffee trembling in his hands,
trying to survive the echo of someone
who once made breathing feel easy?

Do you remember me
wherever you are?

Do you remember the way I laughed
before grief hollowed it out?
Do you remember our late-night walks,
the way we spoke about growing old
like it was guaranteed?

Because I remember everything.

I remember too much.

I remember your smile so clearly
it feels like punishment.
I remember the exact shade of your eyes
when sunlight touched them.
I remember promises
that now rot quietly inside my chest.

And some nights, like tonight,
I look up at the sky and speak anyway—
about my day,
about the song in the store,
about how badly the silence hurts—

hoping somewhere beyond the dark,
beyond the dirt,
beyond death itself,

you are still listening.

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@barren cloak here it is

stable lynxBOT
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@broken vine has sent a notification! - @devout shard @compact pagoda @onyx glen @bitter ingot @floral radish @inland crescent @ornate crest @magic oak @cold harness @royal remnant @winter warren @uneven knot @hoary palm Use /help for help.

hoary palm
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INSANE POEM

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INSANE

rotund sleet
hoary palm
barren cloak
nocturne scroll
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this made me shed a tear

vocal galleon
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This is so beautiful 🫶🏻

winter warren
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This feels less like a poem and more like grief refusing to accept the rules of death. What makes it devastating is that the speaker is not mourning through grand tragedy alone they are mourning through habit. Through muscle memory. Through all the tiny rituals love leaves behind after someone is gone.
The opening is immediately excellent:
“The coffee’s gone cold again.
I keep forgetting to drink it”
because it establishes grief through something painfully ordinary. The cold coffee becomes symbolic of emotional paralysis the speaker is so consumed by memory that even basic actions remain unfinished. That small domestic detail grounds the entire poem.
And honestly, this section is one of the strongest:
“God, grief is cruel like that.
It lets you hallucinate warmth
before reminding you
your hands are empty.”
That is such an accurate articulation of loss. Grief here is not only sadness; it is involuntary hope. The body still expects the person to exist for a split second before reality reasserts itself. “Hallucinate warmth” is an especially powerful phrase because it captures how memory can physically imitate presence.
I also loved:
“I still set two cups out sometimes.
Still leave space beside me in bed.”
because the repetition of “Still” makes grief feel ongoing and automatic. The speaker is trapped between acceptance and instinct, continuing rituals meant for two people despite knowing they are alone.
The line:
“There is no later anymore.”
lands incredibly hard precisely because of how simple it is. After all the flowing imagery, the poem suddenly collapses into blunt finality. It feels like the emotional axis of the piece.
And this section is genuinely beautiful:
“They buried you only six feet under.
Six feet—
that is such a small distance.”

raw dragonBOT
winter warren
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followed by:
“Yet somehow
you are farther away than the stars.”
That contrast is devastating. Physically, the loved one is close enough to measure. Emotionally, they have become unreachable. The poem understands that death creates a distance no geography can explain.
I think the emotional climax comes here:
“People tell me you are ‘at peace.’
But what about me?”
because it breaks the social script surrounding grief. The speaker is exhausted by comforting clichés because none of them address the loneliness left behind. The poem stops being about death itself and becomes about survival after it.
And the ending:
“hoping somewhere beyond the dark,
beyond the dirt,
beyond death itself,
you are still listening.”
is incredibly well done because it does not ask for resurrection or miracles anymore. Only acknowledgment. Only the possibility that love might still be heard somewhere. That restraint makes the ending ache far more deeply.
What makes this poem so effective overall is that it understands grief as persistence. Love continues performing itself long after there is nobody left to receive it. The speaker keeps talking, keeps remembering, keeps setting out cups, because part of them still cannot believe conversation has ended forever.