They say, these poets and writers, that tears fall like rain.
Tears don’t do that.
The salt of suffering is not in raindrops.
They accentuate the sadness already in your soul.
They make the room more intimate, and proximity
to a pretty mouth a dangerous and exciting time.
But they are not tears.
Tears are born of the sea, of emotions set adrift,
of a loss of direction, like storm clouds
blotting out the stars.
Tears are quiet, glistening
in the persimmon light of the setting sun.
Creeping like translucent shadows to hide
in the corners of the lips of that pretty mouth.
Tears are a release, a breaking dam that floods
the plains of your reason,
that slakes the thirst and balms the wounds
of a broken heart.
Tears are not like rain, but they are a reflection
of the inner turmoil of the roiling sky,
washing away your resistance.
And like the storm,
whose sobs are bolts of lightning,
let the quiet, pelting hiss of hurt
pass over you, until the clouds break,
and the tears stop.
And the sun in your smile returns,
bringing a rainbow to bind
the pieces of you
Tears are not like rain.