The lacrimal caruncle
swells with blistering feeling,
flooding out the medial canthus.
It streams down the nasion,
dancing over the pinken,
inflamed to a roaring raw cheek.
Landing on dirtied and tore cloth,
used with the moisture to wipe
all the dust away from every memory,
even when it's possibly too late.

Now there is hardly anything
to be discovered in all of this.
You have done a decent job,
your hands are tired from it all.
Weak and brittle,
you still know now.
You know it could go every single way wrong,
it could be a waste of time,
it could hurt you beyond any kind of repair.

But you know.
You know it's him.
You know it will always be him.
It will always be him
that you wish to lay beside,
it will always be him
that you want to feel,
it will always be him
that you feel everywhere you go.
It will always be him.