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You'd always turn to me, with that coy-yet-inquisitive spark:  "I want to see something else in your eyes beside my own reflection"

How is there any way I could possibly respond?

Or... should I even attempt?

And what would you say if I told you that on a random autumn day

I felt something peculiar and warm; mindlessly raising my face from my book

Our eyes met. A quadrant of blue and green orbs grasping for something lucid in the ether

Yet, before you could turn away

I discovered my soul...

Because I saw my own reflection

That has been obscured by frozen glass and projections throughout my existence

Gentle, opaque core; the bright white light glow which form your pupils.

That of which I continue to be lost within.

 

please release me please hold my hand

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