They’re walking.
I’m looking.

People seem happy most of the time.
Sometimes, if I try,
I can see past that.

I see disappointment.
Their eyes are diaries.
I read their white
pages,
explaining contrast,
over their smock faces.
I can see all the times those pages were torn.

The pearlescent, glossy finish
digs deep into my brain.
Like a puzzle, I’m putting together these pieces,
feeling satisfied when I achieve the full view
of the m y s t e r y image.

Lacking patience, this satisfaction is subtracted to gloomy realization.
I can feel their troubles,
past and present.
The anticipation of what’s to come.

This makes me want to cry.

It’s as if everything I’m seeing in the cinema
of their life, is compressed into a hard, grey, salty stone.
The data from the dark side of their brain
is manufactured into a tight spherical orb of a surly concoction.

And this miniscule, globular feeling is stuck in the
midst
of my throat.

now I feel like them.