Sometimes, there’s water so still and clear that you can see the reflection of everyone else in it.
And they’re happy and they’re sad
And they’re loved and they’re miserable.
And they don’t know you’re seeing them so they do all the little things that people do when they’re alone.
Like wrinkle the nose
And nibble their tongue
And look around
And close their eyes
And wish they were better.
Or different.
Or the same as they were.
They only do that when they’re alone or when they’re a reflection in still water.
And they think it’s only them.
But it not.
They can’t hear me
Shouting that it’s all of us,
Because the sound doesn’t travel far enough through the water to reach them.
So I just watch.
And wish I was better.
Or different.
Or the same as I was.
Until something stirs the water
And I’m gone.