The last teardrop

My forlorn eye musters only a solitary tear, a salty,burning drop holding the last vestiges of what was and could have been.Dry sockets released the flood of weeping months ago, and like a leaking faucet whose incessant drip, drip, drip drives the sane towards madness, I expell the briny, wet residue of torment.A dehydrated spirit engulfs me, and ironically I drown in self- doubt and what ifs. Unsafe bridges over dry ravines burn,and repair seems unlikely.I yearn for the respite of a sweet rain's redemptive water, but the drought continues.