Today with fever
I found myself aching to cry.
I imagined hot tears on my cheeks;
Sore stinging skin,
From so many infant tears.
Red eyes, short breaths,
And after, some magical, quiet
Peace.

These urges are unbecoming of a soldier.
But anyway, those tears never come.
Instead, I held her in my arms as she wept,
Her small body trembling,
Her damp long hair sticking to her naked breast.
I kissed her forehead, rocked her gently as a child,
Wiped her tears from her cheeks.
She clung to me, speaking, whimpering into my chest,
More song than sentence. Words without form,
But so much grief.

In the morning, she is whole again,
And in the morning she is gone.
I am the one still broken.
I am the fool who still aches to cry with love.
In the morning, I walk along the Thames and scream to no one
With no voice.
I offer up my hollow prayers to no god,
For no good,
And pass the time until the next breaking heart
Comes.