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.
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