The bottom of the well is filled
with the smell of copper wishes
and the sound of their collisions,
clinking, chipping them away.

The distant roar of life above
stumbles in with humility
(as if I didn't see the pity in its eyes.)

I hoped the well worked backwards,
threw the presidential emblems
into the glaring moonlight,
willed myself to freedom.

But still I stayed under
the footsteps of humanity,
left to hear their thoughts and dreams,
and know that I now lay below
the lowest of the low.

Ah, but when you looked down,
saw my cat-eyes reflecting like twin spheres,
two mini mirrors in a void,
digits clogged with dirt
from trying to climb the oily sides,
I lit up.

Your fire-colored hair
was the signal torch to freedom.
Its glow did not fade on its descent to me.
Instead it brightened, bouncing
again and again on the quarters and dimes
that I'd spent so much time with.

The spiraling light grew into a staircase,
just small enough to stand on, single footed.
With care I climbed, wishing myself airy,
wishing to balloon.

I quickly rose to your outstretched hand
your fingertips like gems,
little fleshy godsends that were made only for me.

You pulled me out with strength,
but gently, and the stress
of hunger, stench, and loneliness
split and reassembled in what was
easily love's true face -

Your smile.