On the Effect of Boys

Her voice is strong,
and carries no hint of storms to come –
and her eyes stare straight ahead.
She is purposeful.
And I’m watching her in profile,
admiring her matter-of-factness,
when the first tear slides down her nose.
And the cloth of her t-shirt
was resistant to absorbing all that sorrow,
all that frustration,
all that hopeless broken-heartedness.
And the tears just gather on the fabric
like there’s nowhere else to go,
and they’re shining on her collarbone
under fluorescent lights.
And finally they sink in –
and this is beautiful
because she’s been wrestling the sorrow for a long time
because she loved him,
and he could change,
and she loves him,
and he’ll change.
And she wrestled the sorrow so long
that she didn’t notice when it pinned her,
and she didn’t stop fighting it
until just now

when the tears soaked through her t-shirt
and down toward her heart.