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I feel like cracked sea glass,
Beautiful and well-rounded with edges smooth.
Treasured briefly, pocketed, forgotten about.
The bottle I originate from is smashed to pieces,
Each fragment in the possession of a different person.
Treasured, pocketed, forgotten.
Chucked in the washing machine in the pocket of their mud-stained jeans,
They wonder why they kept a hold of me; they pass me onto the next person.
Treasured, pocketed, forgotten.
Until, eventually, each piece starts to crack down the middle,
And the cycle changes.
Treasured, inspected, thrown away.
Somehow, each time I find my way back to the sea, where every edge is smoothed over,
Then even the sea gets bored of me, and spits me back onto the shore where the cycle renews.
Treasured, pocketed, forgotten.
Each fragment becomes two as I split down the middle,
Found by yet another beach-wanderer. The cycle continues.
Treasured, pocketed, forgotten.
Sometimes, though, it's a familiar face who finds me,
And the cycle adapts.
Found, scrutinised, ignored.
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