These are not tears.
It is only smoke from the last burning bridge that has stung my eyes.
It was not easy to strike the match. Yet once alight the structure was gone in seconds. In truth there was only my side of it to burn. The river below it ran fast and cold.
There is now no reason other than income for me to continue with these repeated working sojourns that take me away from home. With every passing week the bleak sea between Monday and Friday widens. By Wednesday I feel as if I am stranded in the horse latitudes, my every sense straining for the faint whispering breeze of the weekend to save me from being forever becalmed.
I need to find a position that is close to everything that is now dear to me.
Somewhere that is within easy reach of the safe and certain harbour of her smile.