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the beauty of tears



I used to go with a girl who didn’t speak of her brothers
because this one was a commie sympathizer & that one
was a drag queen. she would put on Edith Piaf records &
weep in time to the melody, & her tears would float in
the air like shimmery musical notes until the walls were
covered in the sheet music of a tragic opera.

it was the saddest thing, & amazing that there was so
much beauty in the sadness.

I would sit in her parlor sipping tart lemonade, almost
delighted to drown in the river of her crying. it was late
anyway, so I kissed her cheek, put on my hat, & went back
to the lonely street. one bright star in the sky guided me
to the bus stop bench on the corner, where I sat & waited.
and waited.

my dreams wouldn’t buy me a cheap cup of coffee on a cold
Chicago night, so I fashion them into poems & sail them into
the wind, like little paper airplanes. you’ll grab one & read,
like you’re doing now, & you’ll know where to find me.

so if you want to feel pretty, come & join me on my bench; I
will put my arm around you & tell you poems that I keep for
moments like this, because the good poets, the really good
poets, know how to make us cry. we will be the saddest, most
beautiful people who ever waited for a bus that never comes…





Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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