Not even the people.
Especially not the people.
We walk like dancers;
We avoid things on light feet,
Suspicious and protective.
This place is my second home
Its secrets comfort me.
The coldness is like a mirror,
But everything it reflects is shut.
Every time I look at it, I like it less. But I don't care about poetry enough to change it, and I feel like as it is, it'll appeal to the angsty sensibilities of my creative writing peers, so why bother? I promise my next poem will rhyme. Probably. It might even be funny.
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