This year, we have grown extremely close.
My tears and I.
They’d come whenever and wherever I ask them to. They’d come quietly or violently when I’m alone with my prayers. They’d slip into bed with me in the wee hours when everybody else is dreaming. They’d come visit me at the office when I am working late and suddenly feel that I will end up doing all this, having all that, all but alone.
My tears, they just come. When I ask them to. They never hesitate. Sometimes they just linger on the corners of my eyelids, too shy to come out because someone other than me is present. Sometimes, I help them hide in a piece of tissue. Or they flow slowly through my nose to a waiting handkerchief or cardigan sleeve.
My tears, I feel, have been to places. Places where sadness wanders around touching everything without feeling any guilt. Places where loneliness has no friends and is content with just that. Places where misconnected soulmates walk around with blindfolds on forever in search of each other.
And through my eyes is their escape.
I love my tears. Every single one of them tell me that my heart is precious. That I deserve a heart that is equally precious. That I should not give in to hearts that beat only for themselves.
I love my tears. Even if they make me look soft and sensitive.
Vulnerable and lonely.
They always come when I need them to wash away the feels.