They say, these poets and writers, that tears fall like rain.

Tears don't do that.

The salt of suffering is not in raindrops.

They accentuate the sadness already in your soul.

They make the room more intimate, and proximity

to a pretty mouth a dangerous and exciting time.

But they are not tears.

Tears are born of the sea, of emotions set adrift,

of a loss of direction, like storm clouds

blotting out the stars.

Tears are quiet, glistening

in the persimmon light of the setting sun.

Creeping like translucent shadows to hide

in the corners of the lips of that pretty mouth.

Tears are a release, a breaking dam that floods

the plains of your reason,

that slakes the thirst and balms the wounds

of a broken heart.

Tears are not like rain, but they are a reflection

of the inner turmoil of the roiling sky,

washing away your resistance.

And like the storm,

whose sobs are bolts of lightning,

let the quiet, pelting hiss of hurt

pass over you, until the clouds break,

and the tears stop.

And the sun in your smile returns,

bringing a rainbow to bind

the pieces of you

back together.

Tears are not like rain.