Puddles
People are puddles now.
Waiting deeplessly for others' reflections to pass by,
Regardless of the ripples, or tire splashes,
As long as others see a bit of themselves in us, we'll approve them with ourselves until we transpire back into this shallow cycle hung by humid reign.
We could be oceans, yet instead we're scattered liquid melding with the muck between, only touching others with mirrored gazes.
We could be an ocean, whether we should, we can't yet know, though how I wish to swim with you.
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