The Tears
I see nothing till I do,
I start as a feeling,
Building up in your throat,
Tracing the lines of the inner most parts of your soul.
My vision is always warped,
As though I were looking forward with a thin vale over my eyes,
Every shape is round,
Nothing sharp or ridged,
But instead all is obfuscated.
I lay dormant for days,
Weeks,
Months,
Maybe even years,
But I come back just as nimbly as I left.
I stay with one women,
She uses me more than I would like,
Everyday it feels as though I am abruptly taken ahold of,
Throttled and squeezed,
Then there is nothing left.
I feel her calling me again,
This time it is subtle,
More incubuses than before,
She must be hurt,
That is what I think,
She must be broken,
Bleeding out somewhere angrily dark,
She could be dying,
That must be why this time the hold on me is soft,
Almost reverent,
Like a lover’s touch.
So she must be dying,
For what other reason would she be this way?
When my vision does come it is unclear,
As it always is,
I find myself catching in the folds of the woman’s face,
At first I flow down her lashes,
Then I drip along the most intimate places of her face,
Sometimes I even manage to end up running along the dryness of her lips.
From what I can tell though,
This women is not dying,
She is just hurt,
In a different way,
Then I expected.
Through the cloudiness,
I see two of her,
They are inverted,
One of them,
Seems wrong.
More cruel,
Maybe a bit too honest,
So it is no surprise,
That she turns away from it,
To look at something more,
Ideal.
The ball in the sky,
Makes it harder for me,
To see her,
As well with the flicker,
Of flames.
But then the women,
She stops,
And I feel myself leaving,
I feel how I soak up,
How I dry out,
For the women,
Has none of me left.
But before I disappear,
The fogginess leaves,
Allowing me to see her,
For what she really is.
And with the shapes now,
All align,
I can see her,
She is just as I thought,
Yes,
She is indeed beautiful.
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