Still angry,

The water out of my eyes

it causes my nostrils to sting

with a fervor unlike any other,

I don’t even know why I’m crying

like picking up a grain of sand

with your palms or heels.

I was there in that room,

where you were sleeping, not listening,

the floor was cold as I mutely,

seized and ached for you,

and you never knocked or asked;

so the glass remained gray instead of black.