A month can hold something submerged and grieving that you only feel as a pull, a heaviness at the wrong hours.

Silver gone dim, a violet near-dark beneath. It has the cool of deep water, the scent of white flowers and night air, and a faint taste of salt.

Something grieving, kept submerged for a month, moves the water whether you look or not. Nothing needs fixing or finishing — it holds a deep, tidal place to let the submerged thing move and be met, in its own time.