My eyes continue to water.

There’s a conversation occurring, but one-sided.

They’re communicating in a language unlike mine.

They’re pleading,

sending their encoded messages streaming along my cheeks.


Angry perhaps,

because I stayed up late writing to her

knowing she’d never read the words,

and fell asleep without removing my contacts.


Or maybe they’re scolding me for the long car ride through the desert dust,

returning from the funeral.


It could possibly be from this smoke-filled room

that I’ve entombed myself in for 35 hours and counting

ashtrays overflowing and ink running.


Or maybe, just maybe

they’re trying to tell me that it’s okay to cry.