It hurts me to see her cry. Sitting there on the bed drowning in tears, an endless river trailing to her heart as the t-shirt she’s consuming sponges the evidence of honest emotions. When she cries the inner hero within me wishes to reveal my true calling, dashing to her every fallen episode I would only hope to replace as the adventure we both could recollect in the presence of nonbelievers. When she cries I can feel her thoughts surrounding my conscious. My conscious informing me that I cannot rest until these tears of hers becomes the awakening of meaning only I could ever understand. Understanding the translation of her cries bringing forth a purpose that my presence discovers meaning of realizing I could be anywhere in the midst of “when she cries”, but to no avail I choose to catch every drop. Writing “I love you” with my finger in her puddle of our tears.