So I light that long €2 candle and a command appears all at once in my chest:

‘O Lord, for fucks sake, please lead me home!’

And then

My God!

Where did these fat tears come from?

Warmly dropping without warning like that occasional, unannounced bleed that would leave me raw yet grounded.

Is it just the sheer relief that you, you are a little bit closer?

Is it gratitude and awe, to the humans who sweated over creating an inside for my insides?

Or is it that I am moved by that tourist, also fat, also grey, also post menopausal, also touching her sudden tears with her fingertips?

Is it that I yearn for simpler times when our minds were not scattered and shattered by electronics?

Or is it that these cold stone walls and potential echo are inviting me to shout and scream about the grief well that I have been thirstily circling ever since you died?