Reading Tears They say you are sad and move on, but they do not understand sadness. There are a thousand ways of it, a million shades of crying eyes. A tear is like an ocean of hieroglyphics, countless cryptic signs, decoded only by tender love, in humble wisdom, embracing the unknown. You're sitting on the moss-green sofa, your head slightly tilted towards the half-open window, hiding the lonely tear on your cheek. A pain hard to decipher, a homesickness for places, where you have never been, and a nostalgia for closeness that spans distances. an intangible loss, or a not-yet-here-ness, with simultaneous farewell feelings. "Melancholy," they say, but with it they only cover up again, what they are unable to grasp. This tear came differently than the previous ones, slower, it took its time, devoutly found its way on your tender skin, and struggled, as if it were carrying the weight of an uncharted consolation, stopped, not wanting to be carelessly wiped away. "Hey," you said, sobbing, turning your eyes slowly to me, as if you were trying to show me this cryptical drop with greatest care, like a precious antique papyrus that excited readers explore with utmost attention. Reading the tear with a gentle kiss, I sense an ethereal salty trace of your labyrinthine pain.