The older you get,
the colder the air.
The more you speak,
the larger the tear.
The more I cry,
the more water I waste.
The more my room floods,
the more immune I get to a tear's taste.
It's salty and bitter,
I suppose I can relate.
It stains my cheeks,
I hope washing them isn't too late.
Oh no, there go the waterworks yet again.
I just wish I had a shoulder to cry on;
I wish I had my best friend.
