Cry To Me

If you're hurting, they say "don't cry".
But they are wrong.
Not to cry is an illness, if not now, it will be.

The wet crescent of a tear shivers at the edge of your dewy lid.
It wants to escape, knowing nothing of the torrent just at its heels,
of an overarching sorrow that cannot easily be healed.

The malleable property of clothing does not let me know how absorbent it may be
at any given time, but lean into me with your tears.
I can give you my shoulder, give you me.
I am something soft to lean on.

Let the monsoon of your soul begin
let the continent of water wash the land anew

The fertile beginnings of a land free of debris
Dry, save that first tear, alone soaking the radiance of the sun.
A prism, exploding a million hues all over this fresh country.
This kingdom, is you.