Unearthing the past

I used to think I cried
when sorrow was filled to brimming
that it would leak from my irises
and off the edge of my nose.
I used to think that sorrow
came from pain and wrenching loss
that it would ravage me in
terror and neglected understanding.

I've slept with sorrow now.
I understand his hold.
He grasps onto my sides
and stills my restless pulse.
He does not pull or scream.
Or suffocate my breath, but lets
me linger foolishly on dreams
that won't come true.

So when I cry the tears slide
gently down my face
and sobs are a voice created
from a hollow emptiness
I'd like to think it were passion
that created the unrealized loss
but tears come from no arousal
of my self, my lips, my thoughts.