I’m not done with crying
although it’s content with me.
I keep searching for it
in a game of hide-&-seek:

underneath the table,
in the closet,
and behind the sheets.

And it indulges me
from time to time;
It also eludes me
like some lustful lover
keeping the allusion alive.

I’m not through with crying,
I’ve buckets still to shed,
although it’s currently content with me.

I’d endure everything
to bring it back
Even some ER escapade
but it leaves me.

Yes, I’m not done with crying
Although it’s content with me.