Beneath the brackish
dome of night
s|he works on sating
an unusual thirst.
S|he stalks the roosts
of unwitting birds
and tastes greedily
of their tears.
S|he has visited me,
in a space between
the unknown and seen.
Her proboscis gouged
my lacrimal gland like
a man on the highway
stabbing into pieces of trash.
S|he drained my cache
of anguish and departed
for another host with
more hydrated corneas.
Now, when my insides
cry and my eyes strain
and fail to release their
liquids of catharsis,
I lie and wonder if
s|he’s out there
crying for me.
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