as two mirrors falling in love.
It seems they can never settle
on what they want to see
in each other’s faces.
Mirrors only find infinite depth
in sex. Doubling of repetitions
in sweet nothings. When one
reaches for a kiss, ennui is served
on endless plates of silver.
Humility could not save them,
not even their penchant to tell
the truth. Though gifted with
keenest memories, mirrors
fall victim to nostalgia.
Perhaps two mirrors
are too beautiful for each other.
Perhaps both should look
the other way. Though broken,
both would remain complete.
Just doing something playful this time. The four stanzas in this poem could be read in different order (1-2-3-4 or 4-2-3-1 or 3-1-4-2 and so on). I am not sure if there’s a name for this writing, but I’d love to continue making more of this—reflecting the content of the poem to the physical form, structure, or in any means other than just the persona talking. It is fun.