Can we go back to Bosco Lake?
I remember the reflection in the water,
the way your eyes would make
a shimmering glow. The helicopters
used to drown out your voice,
but I wouldnt want to listen anyway.
It was never the words noise
but the smile, never faltering, all day.
I heard Bosco Lake had been drained,
so I can no longer stare at the fish,
or at my own reflection looking back.
Mirrors were always too clear, but the blurred
lake would hide the bad. I just wish
I could stare at something that hides the cracks.














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