Every night I pull my tears
From pockets of my pants or jeans and
Toss them in the laundry hamper.
There they sit, for one to seven
Days (depending when we wash) in my
Room of rest (but not always sleep).
They never sit alone as they wait,
Soaked in the cotton/poly white that I
Carry for mucous, sweat… and this.
Mornings I take one, neatly folded and
“Clean,” the tears all rinsed away
(meaning merged with other liquid,
Diluted to indiscernibility).
But that they’re gone is no mere absence, their
Trace still haunts the washed white cloth
Invisible, unlike occasional blood.
Sometimes tears of others mix when
I’ve a cloth and they’re without. It’s
“Clean,” but still they mix therein. So
At night, when I tiredly pull my tears
For washing, it’s more than just today’s
And more than mine, aware or not.
That “clean” is never purely so can
Irk one. But with tears I’d guess
It fuels the soul to carry such traces.