Eli_D.

The tears drip down my face,

each droplet hitting the floor like a raindrop, miniscule and insignificant in a hurricane.

I sink to the floor

holding in my cries,

If I could taste the memory of my mother. She’d taste like spring air, dirt and cut grass. Like snow and smoke and chocolate. She would taste the way a warm blanket feels. When you warm cold fingers by the heat of the radiator.