When Crying Ends

When Crying Ends

After the crying stops,

something heavier remains.

Not sadness exactly,

more like emptied ground.

Tears clean the surface briefly,

then leave the mess behind.

What follows is the hard work,

no one talks about.

The body feels hollowed out,

like something essential leaked.

Breathing resumes from habit,

not desire.

People assume relief comes next,

as if grief obeys sequence.

Sometimes it simply changes clothes,

and stays.

I sit with dry eyes and no words,

emotion spent for now.

This is the part that scares me more,

than breaking down.

No soundtrack marks this moment,

no visible sign of pain.

Strength is often mistaken here,

for being fine.

I move through tasks automatically,

life continuing on cue.

Inside something counts losses,

without ceremony.

After the crying stops,

I remain.

That is not hope yet,

but it is something.