Curving to the sound of her voice,
Down my bare temple to wet the
Wisps of feathery hair that
Curl beside my ear.
Like the anxious, adrenaline-filled
Moments before battle, the
Tears behind my face build in
Force and Number until
Breaking with a sob.
Sometimes noises ease.
Sometimes fist-fulls of hair are
Clenched and twisted in an
Attempt at curbing the advancing masses.
Waging war against my senses.
Revolutionizing my heart, because - you know
- Revolution is an act of violence.
And my face, reddening with the blood
Spilled of revolutions past, squeezes in
Unashamed submission to humanity's
God-given gift; to
Pure, head-aching emotion.
No longer is the first tear
Distinguishable from the others, but
All pool together, unified in design,
Unsure of what they are fighting for.
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