Herr im Himmel

Tears are peculiar things.

Like my cat, they never yield when you chase them. They slither their way into your bed, your head, your heart, only when you seek deviation. Do tears huddle in your chest, settle there a while, wait for you to breathe them in, breathe them out, acknowledge and atone for them, before they climb up your throat? Warm like you, elusive like you. Somehow somewhere, perhaps, parts of you have conspired to wreck you, exchanged hushed words of your frailties, knew where to poke. So deliberate, loved one; when you know yourself most, you hurt yourself most.

On what we’re mourning, we might both disagree. It’s a claim we won’t make: no one takes pride in losing. But I come now, with my easy words and the pictures from before, and I have it in me to miss, and ache, and need: offerings for endowments I can’t repay. And you’re the sea, darling, Poseidon, so much for my so little. Your waves are promises and threats, to take away, to drag down. To swim through your storms with worn out arms and drained lungs. It was to either drown in you or spill tears at your shores.

And I’m spilling.

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