I like to cry, but
I cry watching movies, stolen kisses and tragic loss.
I cry reading books, shared pain, or exalted joy.
I particularly cry with music, feel the soul and community, and all the things that I'm missing.
But I didn't cry at the death that I knew, or the pain or the loss, or the height of my joy.
It's not that I felt nothing, I just couldn't bring forth the tears.
I like to cry, but worry it's not real.
I cry with the world, but not when I should feel.
