poems-of-madness:

“My wife, she cries.
She cries very soft tears.
Almost like a child.
Her voice becomes very small.
And her eyes disappear into
an abyss of disappointment.
She cries often, she cries with love every time.
She is tenderest when she cries.
Her tears run marathons down her cheeks and she licks them off at their final.
Her pyramids-lips.
Her eyes are fragile
so she hides them away. But I know the gasp of air she takes,
and how she plays with her
wedding ring, looking down upon it,
as a threat to me. She can be the saddest spring. cherry petals falling to the ground. The little moan she makes
when sadness finally slow dances with her. I know my wife cries. I know she is still brilliant, with all of her compassion. I taste her sweet tears on her cheek, and I die like a flower for her. Slowly and tenderly. I know I make my wife cry.
I know I hurt her. Her eyes are islands, and her heart owns every ocean in the world.
Therefore my baby will cry.
And I will hold her like the mouth holds its tongue. My wife she cries, and I admire her immigrant eyes.”

— My Wife Is An Immigrant by Royla Asghar  (via poems-of-madness)