She would bat her eyelids constantly As if they were sending morse codes Of the things she spoke about. The things that one misses of another Are everyday stuff, nothing momentous... Like how she enjoyed my food Or how she would allow me to make the bed I wish I could decipher In time The dots and the dashes of despair Before silences fell over the valley And the fog of time Caved in.
If you were to cry for long enough Your tears will sear through your skin And create puddles in your soul. And eventually, You will misjudge the roundness of your edges To compassion and to growth. Those are just scars Masquerading as Trophies. Stop crying.