A Sunday Afternoon Poem

My tear glands exhaust
Causing a constant river of salty tears
Over the hills of my cheek.
Throat as dry as Sahara
As words escape me but not from my lips.
My teeth,
Grinds against each other like
Two adulterous lovers never wanting to admit infidelity.
I take a deep breath
My nostrils flair open like my grandmother’s embrace
And she asks, “Are you going to say something, or?”
Should I let the “beep beep beep”
Of the phone suffice as a conclusion to this conversation.
Aching in my bones to which my lips doesn’t know words to form,
Internal storm in my heart because its two functioning parts are at civil war,
Memories slow stroll in my day dreams
Confusing words with reality or private speech.
I speak to be heard.
Nonverbal communication moves to be observed.


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