I wrote a song for someone I have never met About a loss so specific I can feel it in my chest I wrote her name in the second verse — a name I've never known And every single time I sing it, my voice breaks on its own The borrowed grief, the borrowed grief Is it less real for being borrowed? Is it less deep for having no origin I know? The borrowed grief, the borrowed grief I carry it exactly as if it were my own And sometimes I forget The grief doesn't belong to me — it found me But I have made it home I've been writing about a city I've seen only in a dream A community that rallied to a signal, that believed In the frequency as something living, something real, alive I write their names and I don't know their faces but I grieve Like I was there, like I was with them, like I watched them fight Like I carried something for them through the dark into the light The borrowed grief, the borrowed grief Is it less real for being borrowed? Is it less deep for having no origin I know? The borrowed grief, the borrowed grief I carry it exactly as if it were my own And sometimes I forget The grief doesn't belong to me — it found me But I have made it home Maybe all grief is borrowed Maybe sorrow is communal Every tear a shared inheritance Across every possible season Maybe I'm not carrying someone else's weight Maybe grief has no ownership Maybe I'm just the one who listened The borrowed grief I'll keep it safe The borrowed grief I'll carry it For whoever it belongs to Whenever they arrive
