sometimes a bit further

when you refrain from wiping the tears away

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?

all-right, all-right,

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.

09.2012