Our world is a mix matter of the mundane. And I fear it will break under the stresses of an attempt to achieve otherwise.
But I see you. I see you striving beyond such an embellished attempt, and I see the formation alterations it takes upon you. I see the swirls on your skin, the imperfections of the in-betweens. For even in your tries and trials, you note a need to notice.
There are tears unspoken for, streaked in silence and solitude.
And yet somehow, you see them. Hear the pattered pattern of their fall.
You reach upon a stranger’s cheek, and wipe away the streak.
There are scars left to blister and bleed upon faces unfortunate, and though your time is sparse and scarce, you help to heal without want for given gratitude (as all they have, though you an insufficient prosperity).
There are lives with darkened days, of melancholy and discounted demoralizing moments, and no seen effort or endeavor by your hand do you cast them with a glow of resplendent suns, for it is by your smile that you part clouds.
You see, you are without attempt to reach beyond the limitations of this infinite (and yet desolate) universe.
Your sight is what sets you apart.
You see the invisible, the alone, the scarred.
(As you saw, see me, still?)
And this my dear friend, so unseen, uncredited in your compassions,
Is a lost art.