your tears were my ambrosia

i never wanted to be a god— just someone you cried in front of. that was enough divinity for me. your grief tasted like pomegranate seeds, sweet and bitter and buried in the soft ruin of you. i held your sobs in my palms like something holy. like juice from a fruit i didn’t deserve. i didn’t cause your sadness. but i didn’t stop it either. sometimes, i fed it slow just to watch it bloom— a bruise unfolding beneath your skin like pressed violets. they say love is patient, but i was ravenous. i drank from your breakdowns like they were wine offered by trembling hands. i told myself i was comforting you, but i think i just loved the way you needed me most when you were breaking. your tears were my ambrosia— your pain, a feast i never earned. and now that you’ve stopped crying, now that your eyes have turned to stone and your voice no longer quivers, i sit at an empty table with shaking hands and no more hunger. i miss your ache the way gods miss prayer— not because they deserve it, but because silence is a kind of death when you’re used to worship.