They call them CHROME / TEARS:
not water, but fragments of alloyed grief,
spilling in slow arcs through static air,
each one refracting a spectrum the eye cannot name.

They run cold, almost mechanical,
yet somewhere in their descent
is the pulse of something unspoken,
a current that hums in a language only the heart deciphers.

Some say they are relics,
residue of nights stretched too thin,
of voices that once fit perfectly between our ribs,
now archived in the hush of stainless silence.

They leave no stains,
only a faint metallic echo on the skin,
a reminder that not all weight is visible,
and not all signals can be traced back to their origin.