tears

Sometimes it's your fragrance that comes to me, out of the blue, on a crowded road in a Sunday afternoon.But more often, it's memories of us that cross my mind almost every lone evening.All I want is to lessen the pain I feel every night.But every morning I wake up is another day, hopeless and miserable, with nothing but a deafening silence, a wave of tears, memories and your absence.

Besides a burial service is rather lovely. Makes you feel uplifted, the grief is real. It makes you feel awful but it does something to you. I mean, it works it out like perspiration.

The voice of grief is rather convincing, isn__ it? It tells you you__e __oo old,_ __ot good enough,_ or __ot worthy enough_ for another chance at life, that starting over is impossible. This voice in your head is the first thing you hear in the morning and the last thing you hear at night. It drives with you to work. It stays with you at lunch. Its message is so consistent that because of its repetitive power, you may be inclined to believe it. But, as persuasive as the voice of grief is, everything it says is a lie.It__ all a pack of lies.Do you want the truth? If you do, then start listening to life calling to you inside your grief.How? Every time you are yearning to be held and loved, to laugh again, listen to your yearning. Do not listen to your fear . . . Listen to life calling you, __ am here, come on over. Take a chance on me. I am your life, and you__e all that I__e got.

No teas come, only memories. Memories and regrets.

Tears are part of the leeway of the common areas of a hospital, since so many have to do their crying away from the patient's bed. You don't care who sees you cry in the lobby: it was port of entry for all the sorrows, and one gave up all one's previous citizenship at the border.

Oh Lady, let the sad tears fall To speak thy pain, Gently as through the silver dusk The silver rain. Oh, let thy bosom breathe its grief In such soft sigh As hath the wind in gardens where Pale roses die.

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

Then you go ahead and cry," Will said. That ended my weeping. Had he asked me not to cry, I would have not been able to stop, but his permission somehow quite my tears.

Her marble tears run down her marble face.A stranger is someone who has no handkerchief.Who has no words to say.Whose shadow mind is burningas he sits watching her handsand thinks how rare!to see a Romantalkwith no gestures at all.

At night, with only the bedside lamp on, I would pretend to sleep and listened to Dad__ muffled crying in the semi-darkness, wishing that I could cry like him, that I could bring Stevan back from the dead by the strength of my tears. But they were regular tears carving the same slicing-hot trails down my cheeks, and in the end, I could not summon a distinct kind of grief for Stevan. Just the same grief that has gripped mankind for centuries, which time would inevitably ebb into a notch in one__ skin or a small limp in the way one walks or a bottled memory that would only resurface some nights. And soon, you__ struggle to remember how that person talked or how that person used to occupy a customized space in your life. And you don__ want to forget, but you don__ want to remember either, and there seemed to be no place where you could just exist.

Her only weapons were her tears.

Tears have always been easier to shed than explain.

He felt something trickle down his face and he wiped it away irritably. When he looked at the back of his hand, he found trails of red. He had never cried in his life; in fact, he could not cry with no tear ducts. But now, at last, he was. He was crying tears of blood. For her.

I still want to feel you against me._ Her gaze dropped to his hands. __ want you to stay with me. Hold me. Just tonight. If I lose you again tomorrow then it will still be worth it. I will lose you a hundred times, if you would but hold me in your arms each time before my loss._ She saw his eyes water, but no tears emerged...

He sank to his knees, absolutely full of despair and sadness. For a long time, droplets of blood continued to fall into his lap.

...and when I lift my head to scream out my fury, a million stars turn black and die. No one can see them, but they are my tears.

Reshuffllng of thoughts - facilitates a refreshed perspective to a mental deadlock!

I have cried over myself a hundred times this summer, she thought, I have wept over my big feet and my skinny legs and my nose, I have even cried over my stupid shoes, and now when I have true sadness there are no tears left.