Writers 
There is a river no map has traced,
that flows from the hollow behind the eyes,
carved by loss, by love displaced,
by every whispered, unanswered why.
I have cried for mornings that never came,
for names I forgot how to say,
for the ghost of a face, still the same,
haunting the edges of yesterday.
I have cried until the crying dried,
until my chest was a desert floor,
until the storms inside had died,
and silence knocked at every door.
But here, this last drop, clinging still,
trembling on the edge of my skin,
is not weakness, not a broken will,
it is the proof that I let love in.
It carries every midnight ache,
every promise the wind once kept,
every tremor, every break,
every night I quietly wept.
So let it fall. Let it finally fall.
Let it write its story on the ground.
I am done answering grief's call,
I choose the silence, not the sound.
For after the flood, the sky turns clear,
after the ruin, the roots regrow.
This is not the end of tears,
it's the start of learning how to let go.
And when the last drop finally dries,
and my face forgets the taste of rain,
I'll carry the strength in my eyes
that only surviving sorrow can gain.