The Mirror

I cannot hear

But I see

And even feel too,

Sometimes.

The hard wall

Presses snugly

Against my eternally

Straight back:

There so long

I feel it has become

A crucial part of me,

Moulded itself

Into my web of intricacy.

I never see my back –

(lost forever to the

Darkness of the wall) –

But I see hers

Often. She comes and goes,

Leaving, returning always.

I feel her too,

When she strokes

smooth fingers

over her opposite

Which I reflect honestly

Back at her.

I do not hear,

But only sense

The sorrowful sighs

Loosed from her wet lips

Like broken arrows

And when she pounds

Roughly against me

In denial

(of what I do not know)

And mutters angry curses

(I see more than I hear)

I shudder, but do not shatter

And defeated, she pools

To the floor; a liquid

Beauty

And shudders too

(A reflection of me?)