I picture you in the looking glass

hair rumpled and messy

falling into your eyes like washed out streaks of sun

brilliant against that azure backdrop

like a shining slice of sky

you stare back solemnly

quiet

eyes bright with innocence

and cheeks pink with the rosy flush of youth

while I try so very hard

not to meet my own eyes in the shiny silver surface

broken like the expression on your face

purity cracking

those cobalt flecks dripping down

until only an empty black hole remains

a void that even time cannot fill

as I stand here on my side of the glass

and look at you trembling on yours

trailing fingers gently

I trace a word into the dust clinging to the mirror

backwards and uneven, as though the words are hard

...Damaged...

and perhaps we are

I can’t tear myself away from the fragments of your soul

clinging to sandy lashes in specks of stardust

universes hidden in each

of those tiny, insignificant smears

I wonder which one you find yourself inside

and what it’s like

in a place no one else can go

your own utopia, perhaps,

or maybe your own hell

in whatever sphere you find yourself

I cannot reach you

you on your side of the glass

and me on mine

one of us locked in solitary confinement

fingers pressed against the quicksilver surface

and I don’t think it’s you

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