Two Travelers Converged on a Road

I have become blind to innocence,

Or perhaps immune to perceptions of it.

We all get dingy. We all stay low.

There are pieces of all of us we left along the road–

The unmissed we don't remember we know.

So when others see you tease a camera just right,

I just see turnabout you're playing on life.

I don't expect you not to have a history.

I'll just help you look for pieces if you do the same for me.