highresolution

i wonder if my son, when he comes to me in confusion and pain, will search out the smooth conclave in my skin and rest his head there. If my colouring book skin, outlines etched by the hands of the weeping men will show him the depth of my compassion.

Maybe they know I'll never turn them away.
Maybe they already know the melody, the ancient language of the lullaby that comes unbidding into my mind as I watch them cry.

he had sad, sparkling eyes.
diamonds formed from a million unshed tears crystallized.
someday I'll pull them out and give them to you to hold for a while.
and you'll realise how much they are really worth.