There it is. That sarcasm. You were waiting for it. You were even pretty prepared for it, you thought, because lately you seem to surround yourself with people who wear it like a weather appropriate accessory.

But even when you sit across from them steeping in your brown-eyed vulnerability, they wear their sunglasses inside their own home, or keep their hats tipped low like Old Blue Eyes. Icy cool and unreachable.

You’re not really sure why, although you guess it would be a lot easier to be unfeeling, to be unaffected and taste of salt instead.

So you sigh at another missed understanding, 
another barred allowance to be heard, 
another provocation that awakens your defenses, 
another moment where you are filled with an empty mind, desperately grappling to prove yourself, to not be so taken off guard by these slights meant to minimize, 
meant to close off, 
meant to cut your perspective down into something small.

You are as small as the golden brilliance of the sun. 
Small as the diamond scattered wonders of the sky. 
You are as small as the infinite canyon of questions we cannot breathe answers to. 
Small as the wet, bluish depths that stay hidden and unexplored. 
That is to say — you, dear one — are not small at all.

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