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He came to me on crutches that crushed my foot when I walked by
I couldn’t help but notice him after that, because he persisted it was my fault
Our fault, our kind, and his addiction to the allure that kept him blind

Keeps him blind, although I assure him taking off those glasses won’t be as dangerous as he perceives it to be, he believes he needs them, and I say maybe he needs me

Needs us, to mother him, doctor him up and send him back out there with those same crutches minus the glasses this time. He really is gorgeous if you get the chance to see his eyes.

But I mean gorgeous in a dirty snow type of way. You can tell at one time he was bright, but his darkness shows everyone who’s trudged on him, making their way towards doors they had to step on him to get through. Only to be melted away or scooped up by some trash, with some trash, put with trash, and deemed as trash.

If only he were a bit colder, ice, a bit older, a bit harder on the surface
People would hydroplane out of his life, and crash into each other
And he would laugh, and the laughter would quickly fade as the emotion remains an echo, a reminder, another blinder

I tell him he’s everything, hoping he’ll believe it
I tell him he’ll walk again, he won’t even speak of it
So he remains in recovery, while everyone is left in the waiting room
Peeking in through tainted glass windows
But he doesn’t seem to mind, he thinks those dirt marks creates character
So there is no point in cleaning them

I don’t mind cleaning them if he’ll let me
Especially if it’s clean enough for him to see his reflection
That may be motivation enough for him to leave those crutches

But until then, he’ll continue to step on my foot with those crutches
So I’ve learned to walk in steel toe boots

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