they drip-drop, soft, down between each breast
and sometimes a bit further if you're lonely.
they'll dry on their own from the heat of the
ache. on chest and cheek
the pain might burst into ugly puddles if you let it
but you can't begin to heal if you won't
let yourself be broken, isn't that
what they always say?
goes the beat-beat of the handsome heart --
he forgot to wear his tails
but you still pine for
him to hear you and maybe
catch those tears for once.
but soaked in salt and simple sickness
your breasts can only heal
and give you back the edge
your eyes have let go of:
be like the wind and know where you're going.
easier said, but those tears
at least will dry on your shirts
or in the naked air, eventual.