Her eyes remind me of staring down
  into the dregs of a cola cup
left in a warm sink,
  that same unremarkable shade
of wet rust on a bicycle frame.

If I had loved her, I could have told her
  that her eyes looked remarkable
in the wasting light, those thin rays
  quietly aging our shadows.
Perhaps I could have described to her
  the woody shade of almonds
scattered in somebody’s fist.
  The burning cap of a field mushroom.
I stare and stare back at those eyes
  until the steam hides her away,
and all I can see is a faceless blur
  shunting about the bathroom,
grappling for towels.


1 Comment

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One response to “Mirror

  1. Elan Mudrow

    Nice! I enjoyed the read! Thanks.
    check out:

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