Yesterday, I lifted some tears which have been left, wet, on my heart.
They are not my tears.
They were left there a while back by a soul who was surprised she had even cried them at all.
I’ve watched them from time to time, for sometimes their cool dampness has quickened my breath.
They are quite old, these tears; and they are not my tears.
They are tears that have never been cried into the world and given a chance to dry.
They look like diamonds, glistening in the sun for, you see, my own heart is quite bright. Especially in the darkness.
They were left in my safe-keeping, these tears. But they are not mind to keep.
For they are not my tears.
So, yesterday, I took each one, carefully, and placed it, gem-like, in a little box of cork (cork is the strongest material in matters of the heart, I am sure you know). I lifted them gently from my heart and put them aside.
Until they are allowed to dry, the owner of them will never step clearly along the paths between cloud and Fate’s playful possibility.
As the final tear was laid gently into its place of safety, a prophecy flew in, the morning breeze and tugged at my tongue.
It said: “Each tear on a wing is as a rock that buried you alive once; you’ll never fly under such a burden.”
And a tear fell from my own cheek. I smiled as I watched it dry, took the hand of my lover, who sits next to me now. And then I breathed.