I would cry every day if I could

If my daily errands did not possess me;

if my overall happiness did not depend on tranquility,

if your potential sadness at my melancholy wouldn’t hinder me.

I would cry every day if I could,
if you trusted me when I’d tell you it will pass,
and allowed me to feel vulnerable,
given me the unconditional protection of your arms.

I would cry every day if I could,
to feel human and to feel loved,
to feel the shivers of reality,
to bask in the calmness of the passed frivolity.

I would cry every day if I could,
to feel the surge of hopefulness as my last tears dry
to fall asleep letting go of my rumbled sighs,
to wake up in the safety of the sun, so high.

Count the norm in your textbook.
Yes- you go do that.
Count the precipice angle -- is it exactly 90 degrees with respect to the negative boundaries of the page?
Yeah- better make sure you can figure that.
Count the linings of my lips:
wanna make sure they match those that'd number a smile.
For after all, who else will lead you to your exile?
Count your way through life the way I tell you to do so,
because I am the decision-maker of your pathway-- you stop, grow, and steer on my sayso.
"But teacher, teacher, if I don't assent to your tactics, why may I not tell you?"
Because sheer courtesy and precedent directs us not to.

Rain drop ruins my melancholy
Rain drop brushes my border collie;
his tail wags across my shin,
breaking my ever-building reverie.  

“Smash that”, says the rock to its falling neighbor,
letting it go without attempt at a rumbling tremor.
“Smash your metamorphic protolith,
sedimentary is your bona fide nature”.

The quartzite stone has no room to reject but yield,
but so behold: I catch it with my awakened shield.
Lays in my hand the metamorphic stone,
Ecstatic to be shiny and free.

Broken from my reverie is where I sometimes wish to be,
for there I meet my life’s expenditure,
my loved reality.
There the marks of my imprint awaken; there I become me.

Fall then rain! Do so duly... for I vow to be
the rightful branch of your sprouting tree.

This was written free-hand; excuse my grammar if it may sound weird but I felt it might be wrong to change it too much since the following is how it flowed inside my head:

Everything is predominantly dark: brown, black, blue, and a sliver of gold paint the scene afore my eyes. An elderly man sits atop a rocking chair. Below the inch of illuminated dust, I see an array of stratified wrinkles... they cover the cheek I once knew to be always a warm, pastel pink...they trace a lip I once knew to be long and quivering, coupled with an anticipating, yet welcoming happy gaze. The endearing purity - that childlike exhilaration and consequent sparkle-- it was a wonder to see that never left his eyes... The wrinkles around them now mimicked those that used to decorate his face when he laughed out of sheer excitement. I remember that in those moments of laughter he’d be able to embody that one noun in a wholesome glory, seemingly no other feelings lending themselves to the elation. I had never encountered anyone else with the ability to do that -- it is one of my only favorite expressions I have found deeply ingrained somewhere within the sand of my mind. It used to remind me of the free spirit I recall to have had as a child... and he coupled it- in what seemed to me a mirror-like manner.
His freedom was a breath of fresh air -- it swept me off my feet and I couldn’t help but breathe it and continue to breathe it..to crave it. I held onto it like it was the last piece of toffee chocolate I would ever eat in my lifetime... But no -- his face was now at peace. It made for an interesting paradox - made evident only to those who’d remembered the appearances of his expressions. His calm was contagious. I felt my heart give a familiar beat: two fast, one slow...that was the rhythm I had met 70 years ago.
His hair had now receded; it was as white as shadowed porcelain. He looked like his father, who I remember held that same potential for his son’s smile. Suddenly, his face turned towards me, quitting its reverie. He held a quizzical expression on his face and although he did not yet move from his seat, I knew that he soon realized who I was...He studied me just the same, drinking in all the information he could possibly gather, still taken aback. I cautiously came closer...three inches away, I knelt before him.
To look at him now felt like an ethereal experience. I momentarily lifted my hand and let out a smile. It felt more of a sigh -- half from happiness, half from awe. Without further thought, I this time bravely lifted my left hand high and in answer to his waiting face, asked: “May I?” Upon a second’s ponder, he gave a slight, yet prominent nod of his head. I brought my hand closer, fifteen degrees from his line of sight, and placed it on his right cheek. To my dismay, he closed his eyes and let his head fall into it, my palm serving as a buttress to his cup. I let out a more excited smile and instantaneously felt trickles of salt fall down my weathered rosy cheeks. His response mirrored mine -- he smiled a full smile against my wrist...his eyes were now closed- elated, that he was. Upon opening his eyes, he anticipated what I might do next: I drew a circle with my eyes around his face, and without a moment’s worth of trepidation, uttered the phrase he once beckoned me before first touching his nose to mine. “May I kiss you?”, I asked. He smiled deeper this time, his wrinkles even more pronounced...It was perhaps to this day the most brilliant sight to ever present itself before me.
Without further adieu I touched my lips to his. It was as chaste, as lovely and full of promise as our first and last.
In the fierce hug we embraced ourselves with to follow, my head once more against his chest, my frame covered with the wonderful arms that I have missed so much, I felt our breaths dwindle away into the rest of forever.
...So I kept my promise: I found life in this man’s arms, and I died in his arms.

Three moments later and 68 years rewinded, I find myself wondering: Is this what our reunion will be like?

Deranged rocks, spread in albeit magnetic threads
rattle the sky's mirror with impatience.
Lay her feet on the ground, the young girl did.
The touch of her soft, dampened scarf
kindled the metamorphic calm.

My veritas found its unwanted shrine--
The dreadful peace that let it dine,
upon the well-being of its host nest its swine.
The ****** amalgam in her eyes
led its produce down her wavy brown vines.
They hid her cheeks, and brought down traited drops
of long-withheld tangy crust
towards the lavender ascot.

She grabbed onto her feet,
warm and wrapped with white cotton and wool heat...
she caressed the ornamental fabric,
swerved her fingers along its threaded magic.
Their lacy innocence familiarized her and made her smile,
whence the memory of her veritas triggered in her mouth's isle.

She lay her hopeful eyes on the silver-nitrate clad scarf,
covering the now-calming rocks' quaff.
Of my reflection her face saw only loss,
for her recognition seemed forever trapped in virtuality,
in moss.

How brazen of me to conceive:
the idea of my being a boy.
I wonder if I’d feel as free - as the cocker -
to wag my tail in rebellious lush,
to just move and walk with a careless pink flush...
I’d never worry about my gait,
nor about my hair...
I’d never worry about tights hugging my stomach
nor setting my shoulders straight when bare;
I’d forget about my purse, pockets my only pounds.
I’d run and chase with sweet independence,
heaving my chest forward, arms out--
ready to emit a Tarzanian roar bout.