The Dead Man's Rain

I have written poems about you—hundreds of pages. Can't you hear the cries of anguish from those pages, torn to shreds, crumpled?

Don't question the power of words that have such absolute faith in you. These eyes, always wet—yet even these tears don't come easily. 

Rain falls on this dead body every day, it never dries. The drops of water that pull me into your depths—I don't control that longing.

There's unbearable pain spreading through my chest—will you keep something I don't have? I love you. Will you bear my eyes, my lips, my sorrow, my helplessness? Can you? Can you, really?