They break as easily as...tea cups

I will say it straight. I've been fed lies and illusions. Years of looking into some eyes, I fooled myself the look they sometimes gave me didn't mean what it actually meant. This is the tragedy when you know someone so closely, yet you choose denial when things go wrong. Was it merely a dream? a good dream? the best dream of my life? it was the thing that kept me going as I was laying on my cross. No matter what I did, and how I tried to be there when needed...it was all for nothing. It passed, and it cracked me...like the wind cracking some dried up twigs. There is evidence that it wasn't a dream. It was the greatest fuckup of my life, painted in purple. Still, it must not matter so much, if it would birds would shut their voices, and clouds would remain still, tears would not wash graves no more and the wind would not play in my hair spreading somebody else's scent around me and behind me as I walk alone in a hot, quelled, cotton-mouth day. I find myself in the same state again: my tears crystalised and damn! they brake as easily as a porcelain tea cup. I try squeezing them out, but the shards get stuck in my eyes. Yet not even blood won't come out.