When my face starts to leak,
I expel my quelled troubles
into Kleenex and
at other less convenient times
into the sleeves of my sweatshirt and
the space between my brows
grows two lines that know each other
but have never really met;
still, my heart promptly answers their loneliness
with escalation of oscillation
provoking a competition
between
my vision and my perception
to see which one will be victorious in dominating
the reality of this tender moment.
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