Wet Cliche

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They say it's cliche to compare rain with tears, but what a great cliche it is. The reasoning persists. Tears fall down the face, wetting cheeks, leaking of their own accord, pouring, even spurting out through squeezed eyes. Hard rain or soft or blowing sideways rendering overhanging awnings useless; straight across like a video camera askew.

Why can't we know rain and pain are conjoined; just know, not live; not living wet faced and hurting.

Seems to me that knowing is enough:
I'm grieving, thank you, that's just a fact, no need for resounding, out loud grief.
An act of feeling, an act of love lost, just acting.

Wear a black armband I think, or at least an imaginary band, squeezing my bicep softly, just to remind; a reminder is redundant for an aching heart, but just in case. I may mistake it for flu, thus a memo via a strip of black cloth could keep sanity alive.

Dark heart, why can you not get it? Game over.
I'm gone; an astronaut tugged free from the ship, air hoses waving behind.
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