i cry to feel emotion

to sympathize
to confirm my mortality
to express joy
to release bottled up
     hate, sadness, guilt

but the worst is when i cannot cry
i beg the tears to trickle down my face,
only for me to wipe them away

the absence of them
makes me feel like
my sentiments aren’t true
     they’re fraud, phony, insincere

if i can’t control or understand my own tears
why should i expect someone
to dry them for me?

because i can’t explain
why they’re present in one instance
and absent in the next

library books;
     the musty smell floods me with
     thoughts of its past readers
     did a girl like me
     run her finger across this line
     as i have?
     will our lines like vines
     ever intertwine?

rainy nights;
     while the tip-tap and dribble of
     droplets hit my windowsill,
     i imagine gusts of wind
     dancing with one another:
     carless and free
     and without destination

light touches;
     the accidental bump of elbows,
     the awkward entanglement
     of fumbling phalanges,
     a gentle squeeze of the hand,
     a comforting gesture that says
     “i am here.”

now reverie this:
     you and i,
     the spines of our books broken,
          our shoulders barely brushing,
               the sound of soft and subtle raindrops
          all things i adore in one simple
      and seemingly endless moment

books, rain, touches, and you