The tears are the best part about it.
Each one carries
what I imagine to be
the tiniest of pieces
of whatever it is
that is hurting me.

Each tear takes its piece
and washes it out of my mind
where it is then soaked up
by a pure white tissue
that becomes stained
with the black
of day-old mascara.

But despite how many
tears are shed,
no matter how many
little pieces of pain
get washed away,
something inside me
still hurts.

It is a feeling
incomparable to any of which
I have ever experienced.
There is no cause
by which the effect
is brought about.

And maybe that in itself
is what is so troubling.
The logic that my brain
is so accustomed to
does not exist
in matters such as these.

No, all that is present
is a dull but throbbing pain
accompanied by the stabbing
of a foreign feeling
somewhere in between
hopelessness and panic.

The tears streaming down my face
are the only tangible aspect
of this unending ordeal
and so, almost eagerly,
I await their return.
Because after all,
the tears are the best part about it.