It is me, melting.
The trigger of tears is never far
because I have come to live outside my skin
where the spillage from the sun, the changeable weather of you,
the smoke from the burning pages of my story,
you, just the closeness of you – all of you who let me in –
has me sliding into your flames as I begin to go.
I am a messy ghost, bubbling up, spilling out,
rising up,
away from black clouds – I swirl
toward light.
There has been time for work,
to put things in order,
to file, to box, to scrub the bottom bin in the fridge,
and there has been time to make linger,
to waste in bed, on chairs, unshowered, undressed, messed.
There is no sense in crying out:
the god king’s fallen into chunks and dust,
the goddess lost herself in unseemly sex,
the fairies are hidden with good reason, and
friends require words for telling.
My tears have not yet learned to speak.
This is what is left:
the calendar
the sunlight
the rain
the roaring in my ears
the devil in the woods.
Can you comprehend this scientific explanation on the phenomenon of tears?
Sprinkle your questions on my cooling embers –
the sizzle and smoke on bone are clear enough;
it’s all I’ve got.
Life as Improv 