When She Cried

She was beautiful when she cried. I don't mean that delicate type where tears gently drip down her cheeks and she pretends they don't tickle on the way down. Not that type. The kind of soul-wretching howling that rips through her vocal cords even when no sound escapes her lips. The kind of crying that makes her face blotchy and red and her eyelids swollen. I don't look for that and I don't even really see those parts. I focus on the pink streaks across her cheeks that tell me her blood is boiling, her already plump lips turning a deeper shade of shiny red, the touch of pink on the tip of the nose as if the cold inside her seeped out and touched her, and most important of all-- her red-rimmed eyes. Those eyes are the most beautiful part of her tears. You can see the pain in her soul in every millimeter of her irises, in every desperate gaze that forces you to actually feel some of her pain. She was beautiful when she cried and her tears made my heart beat faster and faster the harder she cried... until I loved her-- then her tears were agony.