It’s dry – the fish and rice I’m having for lunch. The same way my eyes were last night, even though I begged and begged and summoned and summoned. My tears never made their way out. I was left to face my demons myself, without the aid of my tears to drown them out, or help me float away.
It’s dry – going down my throat. The same way the message of my mother’s death was. I had already known it was coming. There was nothing to be done.
It’s dry – like the air in Jamaica. I wish I could go back there. I wish I was there now.
A short poem I wrote yesterday.