The Passenger

Your wide eyes
are my favourite place. 

Bursts of Technicolor,
flowers that bloom and connect like dot-to-dots
when you laugh.

Fingers that flow rather than tangle,
hands that settle rather than hold.

And although humans are like clocks;
scattering seconds across the world like raindrops,
drowning each other out with ticks and chimes,
interchangeable,
I still like the way your gears turn best.

I am trying to pretend that you aren’t special.
That I don’t see the parts of us
which are intrinsically the same.

But like when a new word is born into my vocabulary,
you have settled.

Sometimes, I have to remind myself
that your wide eyes were shattered into mosaics
by someone else.

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