A mirror for a mirror

A mirror for a mirror

I feel like carrying the burden today, of peace talk
And deflowered trysts, promises stripped of their skin
But their clothes on,
The sting tasted like the ancient dew, a life-spring of fragrant
Crackling century old pages,
Their print quite poker-faced. Like the eyes I see in the mirror while I speak,
To you dear friend,
I speak of and for you oh comrade, bleeding like wars unfought inside you, hanging, in limbo, in wait.
Godot lay at the corner of my view, waiting for the mirror in front of me. The deepest juice of lilting sun of an autumn afternoon spent in the arms of another. Mirror. A mirror for a mirror. A hole for a hole.

It was winter I believe. And as far as I can remember.
When I met your eyes. Broken like mine, dry-cleaned like wine-stained linen. Bearing nothing but the ash from the cigarette we shared in bed. The morning after pill; silence. So how was it.
Terrible, nauseating and splendourous like a two day old Spartan warsoil, dry blood and all. The smell of your skin.

As I conveniently dreamt myself into the warm cocoon of your orange lamp. Overhead, I overheard your squinting eye and the parched corner of your lip from a wintered day long sleep, breaking into a wry smile.
Cracked, your lip uttered not a word that your eyes couldn’t.
The lovely silence of you and your shadow falling onto this page you read.
Confession.
Overhead, I overhear your dreams as well when you leave your lips slightly ajar and I crawl into your eyes,
Or so I’d like to believe.
I slither inside the untread bones of your contention, the words I decode before you awaken to find me deep, deep, deep inside of you.
How long do you think I’ll last as a page in your hand?
No. Wait. Don’t say a thing.
Do you feel it yet?
We are turning, slowly, into a new species of silence.
Endangered from birth