A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I keep telling myself I’m done crying,
done wasting my tears on you
who neither cares nor is worthy,
but here I am again. Semantics:
I try to talk myself around the issue.
I say I’m crying over myself, not you.
But we both know I wouldn’t be crying
if you weren’t the root cause. Wait:
we don’t both know, do we? I know.
I don’t know how many times 
I’ve cried myself to sleep. I can’t count
all those other times; crying in the kitchen,
in the car, at my desk. I can’t count
the times I’ve been caught and made excuses:
this book - sniff - is just - sniff - so incredible.
Or I’ve cried through a movie
knowing that no one will question the cause,
but knowing that I wasn’t even concentrating
enough for the story line to tug at my heart strings.
But you don’t know, because still
when you see me sad, you still have to ask me why.
I keep telling myself I’ve shed my last tear
over you, because I’ve already grieved 
the loss of what I thought I had, 
what I thought I knew, and yet,
here we are.