Tasting Tears
Instead of breathing air--It is tears I take in.
I can feel them, taste them.
How does one taste their tears…
They slip down your throat when
One weeps on the inside all day.
It has been so long since I heard his voice
I repeat in my head, his last words I heard,
I am afraid I will forget.
“Mama, I love you--I am not going to die.”
I think what we would do if that call came…
No planning a family vacation, a graduation,
There will be no exciting baby announcements
Or wedding invitations
Instead, I wonder will we have a service... No… No…
We will not--
Because in the end it is only us that care.
We will not share you anymore.
Those so called friends will go on with their lives.
They will tell stories of what a bad ass you were
And how you were too cool for school.
They will say words, but will not feel the pain.
Nope--they just keep getting high--as if nothing has changed.
Omg-If they knew we may cremate you,
They would ask if they could smoke you.
Yeah--that is what such good high friends do.
Copyright © fonda anne….mooreofme....mamao
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