In the end,
I will weep.
You don’t have
to remind me of that.

But still
I refuse to simply observe,
to delight in colors which
I cannot taste
and flavors that sting my eyes
from afar.

The process
of becoming
has become
painful.

Rather the salt of tears
on my tongue than the sour
of an empty mouth.

Belief is a delicate fixation,
fractured in a blink
and gone where it
cannot be fetched back.

And I do love to believe.
I’ll weep
because the days
have come
for belief to bloom
a child’s dandelion on
giggling exhalation,
fragmented in a hundred
directions of disjointed
daylight.

The days have come
when I will weep less.