The Rhythm of Falling Tears

Sitting on her back deck, ten o'clock glow
The warm breeze floating through the screen door
Like memories through a mind
On fast forward.
Norah Jones softly wafts through the empty neighborhood
The systematic ticking of a nearby sprinkler the only other sound.
So many thoughts she can't breathe
can't think,
can't feel,
can't live.
Her pen slips through her loose fingertips,
Falling to the wooden planks beneath her muddy toes,
Landing with the beat of her heart, the blink of her eyelashes,
The slightest flick of a tongue over her rosy lips,
And the rhythm of falling tears.