I wonder if my seeds will find purchase in your soil

About a mile past the bridge, my throat creaked, and something broke, and tears fled down my face.

Every highway exit closer to the border was like a stich sewn into my chest, black thread spun by the rolling tyres of the bus, that closed my heart back up, and kept anything else from spilling out.

I can't remember the last time I cried. Maybe when someone died. I don't actually know.