The things you love about me are backwards, left-handed
Hebrew held up to mirrors for twisted meaning. The girl
holding the page keeps screaming at mirrors, not realising
it all boils down to the crooked lines that make up her
self.
She looks for truth and beauty and you look for youth and
beauty, dissonant harmonies as the bell intones far off. She
thinks too much about the future and is too caught up in the
past to break her confines, born middle-aged and wanting
warmth. Your heart's still a child on a playground wondering
at all the things still to do next.
She misses that like she misses you, like she misses
gardens and snow and being the child she never got to
be.
But she is still young yet.