Time moves slower in grief.

It's a molly hangover on a Sunday afternoon. It's emotional motion sickness. It's your heart pleading for the chance to vomit all over your chest. It's you fantasizing over the moment you can finally get the fuck out of the car.

How much longer? Three more hours.

How much longer? Three more hours.

How much longer? Three more hours.

It's the feeling you had as a kid when the snow starts to thaw and you try to ignore the grassy patches bleeding through. It's a lump in your throat you can't swallow as you make angels out of what was.

It's nostalgia for a place you can't return to. It's the episode in The Office when Michael leaves. It's homesickness for a home that burned down.

It's a concussion. You can't think. You can't see. You can't hear. You stare at people's lips and try to make out what they're saying but the words land on you like rain on a window pane. It's you watching the tears roll down in wet ribbons as the hot air from your lungs paint shapes on the glass.

It's you reminding yourself to breath.