Rain over Palm Trees

Three days and little sleep
and eyes as dry as the palms
that have been soaking in soap
and alcohol for far too long,

the inside of the eyelids
feeling as if it was 12-guage sandpaper
rubbing across the delicate surface
of a hard-boiled egg.

You want to cry—

because only the tears in between
then and now can wash away the pain
of this fragile instance

but when you look back
at what you had to leave behind,
you find no room for rage or sadness

—only dreams.