But These Tears Wake Up No One

By James Jackson Leach

Tears in the hospital room as the hand cusps the back of the ailing mans head, and the words that people fear to hear and joke about when they say, "goodbye," comes to mind. They smile, "Not goodbye, just see you later. Goodbye is forever." And in this case, yes indeed the truth is there in the remorse of the death of love as the past turns pale as the machine decides by the hand of a man in a white coat to be turned off, letting this human, this someone, this soul slip away the natural way, slowly fading out, from something, into something else, because that's the way it works. That's what people do, and to some degree we need the loss, the separation, the break of expectation, but nonetheless the hand rests on the back of the head, holding the hair that still grows long even though the body is in some sort of hibernation.

And the tears that fairy-tales display drip from the eye, and find their way, through the landscape, reaching the tip of the downward facing mountain, falling, falling fast and salty, down into space, where the negative timeless distance folds into a split moment allowing the essence of another humans' feelings to touch, and be tasted by the lips and skin of a dying man, in a one-day to decay bed, in a one-day to crumble building... But these tears wake up no one.

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