Tears

You were the first boy I ever loved, but my love faded like mist through window panes, and I’m sorry. You told me that before you met me, you had cried three times in conceivable memory. Well, you you cried five because of me. Each tear a boulder from a soul carved of stone. It eroded you and i am so, so, sorry.

You cried when I was inconsolable. When I lay on the grass in the dark shaking, curled up in fetal position and blind to the world; all my energy focused on salvaging the million shattered pieces of my body and arranging them into some recognizable shape. If I didn’t I was afraid I would lose them, shatters would scatter and never would be found. The ground was the most stable thing i could think of, and even though it was spinning at 1,038 mph at least it was spinning slower than my mind. Even your scratchy baritone could not bring me to life. Your fingers on my arm that usually left trails of electricity that refused to fade like jet trails in the sky were ice. Icicles dragging through my skin, you knew it had nothing to do with you but you still cried the tears that my eyes refused to produce. “No one’s ever seen me like this”, I whispered, a vague part of my mind horrified that I was such a mess. You scooped me up in your arms like a child and kissed my forehead, whispering sweet nothings and rocking me to sleep.

You cried the day I told you about my past, the day you told me I was one of the strongest people you knew.

You cried the day I left you. Oh, you cried. Your body shook in the hurricane of your eyes, the piercing blue swirling to purple and gray. I held you as I held my breath, afraid that if I relaxed my lungs I would swallow your storm and my heart would shatter into a million pieces. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.

I heard about an eagle shot out of the sky once. Attached to the birds neck was the skeleton of a weasel, bones dry and brittle as twigs. The weasel had latched onto the birds neck and refused to let go, refused to let go until the day that he died, the stubborness the only thing still living in the marrow of his bones.

You said that I was one of the strongest people you know. Well, sometimes strength is knowing when to let go. I looked down at the landscape and realized it had become winter, the barren trees a premonition of my death. I was dying, holding on like a stubborn weasel to love that had faded like mist through window panes, because your touch still left trails of electricity, your scratchy baritone still warmed my chest, but I was dying. And I am no damn weasel.

You cried five times because of me, each teardrop a tsunami, each one chipping away at your soul carved of stone. But every single one has turned you into one of the strongest people I know.

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