The tears not yet fallen start building, growing, feeling.
The tower teeters every taller as the tears try to escape.
But I build scaffolding and pipe work and defences to endure the pressure that increases.
Diverting flows away from exposure.
They sit there, hovering over the cliff edge. Off the edge but clinging on. Fingernails scratching, knuckles white, but holding
The sparkle can be seen by those who know the tense spread of a face fraught with battles scars.
They are waiting in the wings.
Waiting for just the right question.
The right person to ask.
Waiting for a kind hearted hug, touch of a hand.
Waiting for a break in the fortress where I did not expect an advance to occur- a movie, a story, a key.
Just waiting.
These tears are old and worn out.
Tired from all their waiting.
Tired from the back and forth, inches gained and lost.
These are the tears of long ago.
Tears that are made from tiny cuts long ago discarded.
Those that fell, washed away the feelings they fell for.
The tears that have not yet fallen -these are the feelings that we still feel.