The Echo Crust

grief as ghosted space

Dear Crumbheads,

. . .

You’ve walked through a room that still echoes with something unsaid.
The Echo Crust is what’s left when presence is gone, but weight remains.
You reach for something warm, but only find air.

Let your chest rise and fall like it used to matter.

I wasn’t invited to the funeral, but I showed up as an emotional support loaf anyway.

What silence have you been speaking around lately?

Let the echo exist. You don’t need to fill it.