I am, nobody’s something. Nothing special, and yet to know if I’ll remain so. I play an extra in everyone else’s movie. There’s brighter and more beautiful. A more catching story, a slyer smile. I am, anybody’s nothing. They pick me up and consider me for a moment, scrutinizing my rosy eyes and cloudy head, then deciding I’m simply not for them, and set me back down. I am, Somebody’s anything. Sometimes I catch a second glance, a look of possibility and care. I’m taken and toyed with, told I give tunnel vision. But only for my storefront view. As soon as the buyers remorse kicks in I’m blamed for my own heartache. So what am I? I’m a cloud in the fog. A tear in a rainstorm. A flashlight next to the sun. I’m there. Here. Just not significantly existing in a way that makes me Somebody’s something.