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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