Sinking feeling. Dead weight of a cold, round, and smooth grey stone. I feel it in my sinking stomach. Lost lunch. Lost lunchbox. Skipping rocks, across a mirror-glass lake that does not reveal its secrets back. However, it does show you its reflection – your reflection. Gliding these flat stones across the surface; far, until they sink. Cobblestone roadways, antiquated houses from dreams I’ve had years ago. Non-uniform, uneven. They need cement to help even them out. Stoned as stoic, hard, and impenetrable. Can’t get through outside or in. It’s an accident. Usually a happy one. I never knew a glass house, except for on the cover of a Billy Joel record. Little pieces of gravel tapping at your bedroom window.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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