Sawdust in Your Eyes

She knew how to cry. Those damn hard to cry drops of salty licks. The push pin sofa sank when her toosh pressed against the cushions. Her reality spun to another. Drip-drop; her tears flew in time with the ticking clock. The drips, and tocks, all churned into one.
 
We fail to write our stories. The ink turns into flesh. But the words can't find the roots of ages, and again we fall for doom.



I've lost my touch. They keys are gone. My fingers move over nothing.