i never cried as hard

as i did when he held

me steady in his hands.

i poured into him like

a glass of nectar, just

dripping and waiting for

a sip to be taken from me,

but none did. there was

no drinker to consume

me. there was just a

table to cry over, and

onto, and against.

"there's no point in

crying over spilt milk,"

he told me as i let

the water tumble, trek

down my face as if i

was a waterfall. yet

still, there were no

rocks to crash down

into, just a safe puddle

that i made in his

comforting arms.