Many nights is about a situation when it only makes sense to
cry but something holds you back whether it’s pride or something else; that
gulf between how you feel and how you’re able to react can be huge.
Many
nights
I have not cried in many nights,
pacing the curtained
confines
of my single room,
trying to track
the shapes spilling
from the light
of a crescent moon.
The tears have not
run their trails
down my sun kissed
skin, my feet
occasionally kicking
child hood dolls
into the corners
where they lie sprawled
out and forlorn,
abandoned these
many years in boxes
we never open.
It feels like
yesterday when these
boxes were filled
with armchairs
and plastic pieces of
swing sets,
some screws perhaps
still roll around
beneath my bed.
My nephews have grown
too old for
them and perhaps I
have grown too old
for tears, too old to
cry over forgotten sins,
memories that stretch
out like shadows
born of trees.
I fall bonelessly
upon my bed,
thinking nothing,
only to welcome
the cool refreshment
of a falling tear.
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