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The Fall Of Teardrops

John Grey

The eyes can’t hold onto
them forever. So they have

nowhere to go but down
the slope of cheeks.

And even the softest,
most kissable part of her face,

is but a temporary landing place,
lacks the grip to stop tears

falling further, even if it
had the will. Eventually, they

drip from the edge of the
jaw onto the floor.

That’s the pattern, the routine,
until the time that they

stop gushing. Sometimes,
she wipes her eyes with

the back of her hand,
aborts the journey

when it’s just begun.
Other times, she grits her teeth,

and doesn’t cry at all.
With that, her lover leaves the room.

It disturbs him to think
that she’s not sad enough.

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