I can’t see you

I can’t always see you

that’s why I cry.

I walk and I cry

and people ask me

what’s wrong

and I tell them

that it’s because

I can’t see you always,

only sometimes,

and that hurts.

They tell me

not to see you,

so I kneel down

and my knees

get torn

on the hot pavement.

The sun

evaporates

my tears,

and they leave a salty

residue

that burns

the eyes.

The eyes burn,

under the incandescent sun.

The knees burn

over the crackling pavement.

Stop crying, they say.

They don’t understand

I can’t see you.