The real tears of grief do not jump from your eyes.
They do not grip the edge of your eyelashes and say a prayer.
They do not seek tissues or applause.
They do not smash onto your cheeks like waterfalls,
or origami your face into a picture of pain.
They are not an orchestra of tragedies.
The real tears of grief creep to the ledges of the windows of your soul
and they fold into your irises, glowing like failing heartbeats.
They do not fall. They escape. Like sad sighs;
like feathers in a skinny breeze;
like lullabies you thought you’d forgotten.
The real tears of grief are pure, raw and silent.
Something’s missing here. It’s not punching me in the face. I don’t know why I am always so impatient to publish.