I like what I see, the me, reflected by you. It is no way to live, this fickle self existing exclusively as mirrored through you. We can only be known backwards - keepers of our intertwining stories. Oh but isn't it fun - to have the illusion of being seen, the pretense of being known? We drink merrily, toasting to one another's warm regard of the other. Then the mirror tips askew - yours, or mine. Subtle manipulations ensue, corrective discourses. The nuances picked up. Mirrors righted. Another bottle opened.
I feel the uneasiness of being more a part of you than of myself fold in around me and turn away from the laps and loops we spin around each other. Spells cast to keep the image projected just so. Now you dance alone, and I sit - unreflected - waiting for you to stop, so that we can finally meet.
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