observation poetry
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In the end, they're all blurs.
Passing through the streets, some stopping to say words at me
Fewer seeking the words that I can give to them.
Unsure.
Each next one more insecure than the one preceeding.
Velvet triangles, shiny black buttons
and soft pink hands
that grip the underside of my window.
He is peaceful, finally fully unafraid
while sleeping while only I watch
his steady daytime slumber.
