The tear waterfall was clouding my vision. Rods and cones unable sufficiently to cohere so as to penetrate the watery refraction. Contorting your face so I can no longer adjudge its mien. My wrath diluted orange. Eventually the cataract dries up. I hate that you can do this to me. I wipe away the tears and mucus. You’re smirking, a mischievous spangle in your eye. How can you remain outside and unsullied by all this? You tell me there is always a place behind the waterfall, a crevice to wait out the storm.