my tears and I.
She is a stubborn, wilful little girl
always accompanying me.
Sometimes, she is sombre and quiet,
caressing my cheek gently yet persistently.
But at times, she would prefer
and teasingly be veiled in the
rhythm of the rainfall or
behind the layers of a vast lonely sky.
Often, she will peep mischievously
from my tea cup or
among the pages of my book,
occassionally, even from behind
Salty tears often would slip,
unnoticed and unidentified,
and will remain
On certain days, I get disturbed
and try to send her away
luring her with promises of happiness,
on days barren, I would desperately blink her away
or at dark velvet nights, I would just stare into oblivion
hoping her to just drop and go away.
But she keeps coming back,
stealthily, without any footfalls
into unpretentious poems,
naive thoughts or
unassuming moist memories.
I keep building facets of life,
doing and undoing
shaping and reshaping
the sides and the contours.
and suddenly, she appears again,
in all my efforts,
ransacking like a wild sand storm,
a naughty little girl,
breaking noisily, into splintered glass pieces.
next moment, sobering down,
she will whisper into my ears:
it is dark and lonely,
why don't you say something?
And I realise, she would always be my friend,
unlike the colorful butterfly's fleeting
or the transience of ephemeral happiness of the humans
she will stay with me yesterday and tomorrow,
till death does us apart;
we can never be separated
my tears and I.
So, my teardrop, I write a poem for you,
weave you into a small, delicate verse of mine
and I will sprinkle this poesy on all our open wounds,
soothing them with your comforting dense dampness.