ELEVEN EMPTY LINES

late tears.

If i could, i would smack myself on the face until the tears came.
Until they came rolling down my blank face. Until i would expect to wake up with a bruise on my cheek. So i could cry for you. So i could try and remember how it was to sneak candies away from right under your nose and how'd you'd always find out but say nothing. Try to remember the blue and red cords dangling from your ceiling waiting to be dressed with diamonds and lamps to make up a chandelier. Shining so bright you would have to look away and rub at some sore eyes. Remember your old, worn out perfume that seemed to never run out. The nights when you would let us go through closets and dress as pirates and princesses and fairies ready to take flight. To grow our wings. I try too remember. To cry for you. I try. The night you had grown your wings, when we left the burial, i cried. I cried so hard. 'Finally' i had thought. Seems as though my tears were late.