Tears

These tears that you see, trickling from my eyes; are to quiet to speak, and to shy to try. One by one, they roll down my cheeks; leaving a trail of where they have been. Each one holds a story, a memory too; but moist to the touch like the cold morning dew. I'm waiting for the sun, to warm my inner winter; in hope that my tears, will turn into nothing more than a burnt out cinder.