I never promised to hold your tears,
would I could,
squeeze them in my palms

and make pearls of your sorrow,

push them into the shoulder
of a cloud heavy with lightning,

would take that cloud

from your chest

and let it rain rare

on all the graves you’ve filled,

wondrous in its striking,

what a cemetery is this,

holy and held around your neck.

But you would know
I gifted you back your pain,

wouldn’t you?

For all the metaphors
I used to cloak my words,

you would see that my hands

were empty.

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