A burn in my throat blisters 
to prickle the insides of my cheeks.
To sit behind my tender lids
to burn, burn, burn.

Waiting.

Pulses of fire radiate –
my throat, my mouth, my ears
– all centered around that precarious drop
poised behind my lids.

Aching.

Frantic roving, ripples against my lid.
A frenzied search for escape.
A flicker of my lid betrays me.
And it’s too late.

Falling.

A tiny, salty drop
carrying a weight that belies its size:
an emotion too great for words alone,
straight from a torn heart.

Imploring.

It takes form,
this small, salty drop,
infinite pain, anguish and sorrow
or endless joy, love, and serenity.

Demanding.

Down on to my sleeve.
Poised – a split second –
fighting valiantly to remain, to exist,
to be after all the anguish.

Fighting. 

Like morning dew,
all good things must come to an end.
Like countless others before it
nothing remains but a teartrack.

Fading.

Have you ever seen a teardrop fade?