I think of wells
The faces at the bottom that are singed in the subway pavement
If you take away the walls,
The faces still scale them, but get mixed up in water rushing toward the tide
The waves leave periodically, but faces get materialized in footsteps
And souvenirs to the unaware
Bottles of sand represent more than they can bear
Or they’re put to work
Industrialized for pardon
Pushed so thin, but presence still felt through distortions in the looking glass
And their inflictions on reflections
Reason for easiness when mirrors met in passing
Seems… fine
But think: “something doesn’t feel right”
Think that someone else fills that space that was reserved for you
Eyes met with a emptiness you don’t know but have forgotten
Think that maybe you shouldn’t have left them
Their names will not be forgotten

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