Thick haze filters the sunlight onto the bridge of my nose,
but still burns,
and I'm okay with it.
Foamy surf washes over what little bit of joy I still have,
but doesn't cleanse it,
and I knew it wouldn't.
Time-lapses of other lives and journeys pass frame by frame,
but never change me,
and I don't expect them to.
There are sparkling jewels still out there to find,
but they'll never be mine,
and it's only my fault.
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