I’d always thought tears were bricks in a house
slowly, imperceptibly, stacking over time.
And yet each time my eyes leaked like thatched roofs in monsoons,
they never found an equator.
When what you feel and what you think blur in between,
are you feeling thoughts or thinking feelings?
Is it excess or the absence of it?
What, exactly, are your tears the expense of?
Tears are wet, but they are not ripples.
They are equations with variables missing,
consequences collapsing into coincidence,
chaos disguised as cause.
And then they vanish
evaporated into nothing,
like a sunset swallowing its own darkness.
The ocean remains: tides, waves, salt,
yet never a drop of grief, not a breath of moist.
Tears are comets burning through the skin’s sky.
They arrive without method, without madness.
Ironic, that rarity should resist extremity.
When you most need them, when you must
they elude you, baiting you like gods do faith.
Dark clouds wander the length of your eyes,
a forehead furrowed in forecast.
But the rains don’t come
not for thirsty crows,
not for tree trunks turned to bone.
Tears are audacious ornaments,
pearls no pain can purchase,
and no peace would ever wear.
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