Dry. The eyes don’t manage anymore.
Not when the heart expands,
not when every corner of the skin aches,
not even when the chest burns, flames menacing to escape through every pore of the body.
Nevertheless, the symptoms persist, the swelling of the throat, the soaring lips, the transitory end of pulse.
For a second, and forgetting everything that placed them there, the eyes crave to expulse the flames.
And after experimenting yet another failure, they are left knowing...
…that the first tear they ever spill again will sting, ardently, and hopefully it will be satisfying.
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