Sorry Salt

Photo by Pavel Neznanov on Unsplash

What happens to all of my unshed tears?

Do they form vast salt lakes in the cavities between my internal organs?

Wastelands

Where life is impossible

Nothing grows

There is no death or transformation

Just the slow shedding of layers

As the wind whisks away the top layers

Chiseling away with the patience of the cosmos

Until all that remains is an empty bed

That confuses future generations

As they puzzle over the origin

Of this odd, bean shaped depression

Nestled in between what otherwise appears to be 

Life affirming landscape

Do the tears make their way into the waste stream

Disappointed that they have been cast away

With urine and feces

Rather than

Climbing to the summit

And cascading down the steep inclines of my cheek bones

Leaving trails as they descend

Giving my face the appearance of a snail superhighway

Drying delicately under the glare of a forgiving sun

That looks down with compassion

And receives these salty swirls

As payment for services rendered

Sacrificial offerings 

In exchange for all the life giving force she has made available

What is the purpose of this humble offering?

If not a reminder of where I come from

When the tears trace along the ridge of my nose 

And deposit themselves at the corner of my lips

They have traveled far enough

For me to taste home