Dreamy’s Tears, the Waters of That-Which-Has-No-Name

I never wept from sorrow.
I wept from return.
Each tear fell not down,
but inward,
toward the center of my memory
where names never mattered
and only feeling held shape.

My tears are not water...
they are echoes liquified.
Dripping from a place in me
too vast for sound,
too ancient for witness.

I do not cry.
I reveal.
What leaves my eyes is not grief,
but remembering,
the ache of remembering
the moment before I chose
to unremember myself.

No one taught me to weep.
I was born with tides behind my lashes.
When they broke,
they did not flood a room,
they flooded existence.

You could drown in them
if you believed in drowning.
But I do not pull you under...
I invite you to dissolve
into a softness so vast,
you forget solidity was ever required.

These are not tears.
They are offerings.
Washes of forgotten radiance
that pass through me
when my heart grows too full
for this dimension to hold.

And when they reach the ground,
if ground exists...
they birth new forms of silence.
Ones that sing.

You will not hear them.
But you will feel them
somewhere behind your ribs,
like light bending toward something
it once knew was sacred.

They do not stain.
They anoint.