His tears are his own,
improbably,
there really isn’t a pattern
except the most obvious
except he is so obvious,
you know the sort of person he is,
predictable,
the sort of guy who defines himself
long before anyone else cares anymore.
He lives alone
in this quiet world of anxiety
always on,
always trying to be on
always his chance to breathe is limited,
actions of his own,
can’t seem to disown
all the fears that raised his demeanor,
the skin on his body always edgy.
He’s trying to survive in his own skin,
yet every chance he gets,
his tears seem to steer
his path.
© Scott F Savage 9/2021
