Mirrored Echoes

Morning ritual…

blade glides like a whispering scalpel,

thoughts bleed slowly.

Age…

clings to the steam,

fingers grasping chrome rails like drowning men

clutching driftwood in a porcelain ocean.

Floating…

feels like a child’s dream tailored from fog, briefly worn,

then ripped away by the couch’s velvet mouth,

a carnivorous cushion that devours your spine and spits you out aching.

Love…

once pitched on mountaintops,

bodies curved like bowstrings drawn taut beneath canvas skies.

Pebbles pressed into memory like fossils in flesh,

knees remembering what lips forgot.

Kisses climbed like ivy up the cathedral of skin,

now just vapor drifting in the rearview.

Damn…

Mirror, mirror, who’s the rebel now?

Old met young once, knew it like marrow knows bone, fearless, unapologetic.

Now the gaze is hollow, skin a battlefield where medals turned to rust.

Scars once shimmered like constellations,

now eclipsed by a bruise blooming

like a galaxy of shame from a table corner that lunged like a predator.

Look...

I see you, reflection. You see me.

Irony grins like a wolf in lipstick. I grin back.

No touch, no kiss, just the ache of time sprinting

like a thief toward another maybe.

Mirrors lie, don’t they?

Of course they do.