i was caught up in the false illusion that we were all that was, that it was the only thing i would ever find.
every day i find something or someone,
a over-heard conversation, a list left on a desk, the low murmur of headphones
that proves otherwise.
i'm starting to wonder if i want to be
i sometimes forget that our past was in color, too.
the mirror cliche.
being at the crossgates of one's morality and actions,
touching the glass to find something concrete.
worn out.
but this is a part of me
that i don't know.
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