Crying eye

I ask again “Is it too late?”

She looks at me

but she’s not looking at me.

Eyes, swollen levees,

hold back the floods.

Dark circles frame dewy lashes,

sleep a long forgotten luxury.


Tremors on her lips

tell me she’s in aftershock.

Mouth open,

she doesn’t speak.

Lungs, clenched tight,

reach for air

Hands, once inviting,

become closed fists


I lay a trail,

crumbs of comfort.

She doesn’t pick up.

I talk of plans,

the future

but none of us is listening.


I ask again,

“Tell me, is it too late?”

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

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