Loving the Language

Her reflection knows something she doesn’t.
Her reflection moves like her, with less pain.
They look at each other,
But her reflection loves the wall.
She looks at the window, but not through it.
The stain glass reminds her of some church back home.
Her reflection can’t remember the last time she was alone.
She’s always alone.
Her body moves in six different pieces,
She rewrites the same poem,
And doesn’t let her reflection see.
On the inside she cries, or laughs, or runs and hides,
And her reflection ignores the dead pieces.

She spins together phrases and metaphors,
And pulls apart feelings and a bone.
She smells of raspberries and pain.
Her reflection finds a single tear,
And she hides the buckets behind her back.
Some punk flies by the window.
She looks to her reflection-
Who hides.

Classic rock, or staring.
Her reflection has never star gazed,
And she always thinks she is doing it wrong.

Her reflection is on something now,
So she mirrors her reflection until,
She can’t stand to stand.
Crying at the thought of a mirror,
She reaches for her poetry.
Her reflection rather turn towards the wall
Then share the ideas.
She loves the way her hand feels on the window,
And her reflection holds the memories close.
Her reflection loves the stain glass,
And she: Loves the Language.

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