New Jersey

As the tears dry, salt trails make sticky cheeks.
I pour another glass of wine and it stumbles towards my lips.
There is no quiet here - no midnight echoes of crashing waves -
just the kind of heat that drowns
and the cacophony of small insects to accompany.

I try to outrun these silent midnight tears -
perhaps for a moment I find peace -
but they always find me - hiding at the bottom of the glass -
drag me again beneath the wake.
Drunk and hungry - lying in wait - they pounce
when the world is blurry through the looking glass.