My eyes continue to water.
There’s a conversation occurring, but one-sided.
They’re communicating in a language unlike mine.
sending their encoded messages streaming along my cheeks.
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.