The tears are already dripping on the fumbled paper.
On the bedsheet, on the floor.
They taste soar and salty,
they taste sad.
And they feel so hot on my body and chest; clothed with my damp T-shirt
and yet the sweat upon my body feels cold of this anxiety.
The tears aren’t willing to stop now.
I look like a complete mess
with my face smeared of ruined make-up;
the tears staining my white ripped dress.
I search for a little hope that isn’t here anymore.
No, I can’t hear your voice like it used to call me before.