How oftentimes the tears don’t Mean Anything. How sometimes they do, and how then does one tell the difference?
A woman’s tears are meaningless, according to many men.
My retort “just as the gentle man’s kiss-whisper ‘I love you’ in my ear as he comes inside of me, is likewise meaningless”
These divergent means of communicating, if we’re lucky, may have satisfying results, though perhaps not always the ones we sought.
|poor bird, flew against the reflecting window, boink and now it's fly fodder|
|how this proud stick bearer always manages to make me smile|
|coot chicks chasing their mother, away from me|
|how the bright, morning sun casts sharp shadows|
|how the shirt after a second dye came out full of bruises, like the aging skin on my legs, where bruises appear after I bumped into god knows what god knows where - how this evokes an emotion|
|how the black feather embraces a rainbow|