A Pocket Full of Weeping Sessions

I trust you with my tears
In every sense.
You are the pre-spill sting.
You are the reason it bathes my
Baby blues in warmth. You are the muscle
That lifts my hand, brushes loose strands
Of hair to frame my face,
To hide my shame, to cover the
Ocular betrayal of my brain.
I sweep into place the ready-made
Keratinous curtain for my pain.
And now you are the familiar pad of a thumb,
Wiping the stray saline trickle
From my streak-tracked cheek.
You are many, many things,
Customarily cloaked in threads of dynamism.
In this, though, you are blessedly
Consistent. I trust you with my tears,
And you collect them in your pocket
Like so many after-dinner mints,
Being hoarded for later on.