And when is it any different?
do our eyes
always glossed with tears, refracting
these holy images, of you
of me, of mangled
hearts wandering and never
to be certain
Who could you be?
facing east, facing
the big day
when my hands are no longer mine
when my very reflection peels ill
Who will you be? And what will
you whisper to me then?
oh dear I will miss your face