I am not.
not two planes of ice
sliding across the expanse of one another
I am not.
not the echo of a hollow tree
creeping under the shadow of a hillside
I am not.
not a girl with two blind eyes
which can see perfectly clear
but does not always understand the context
which she captures with her vision
forever scarred within the folded linen
of her precious mind.
She sees.
sees everything etched into the clear
smooth surface of pixie glass
She sees.
sees how the light dances across the surface
the colors which speaks for itself
the form narrowing into two
shapeless ghosts of perception
thrown into the distance
She is not.
Not a folded piece of laundry
which can be cycled into a washer
so that when the cotton goes bad
and stains make her unbearable
she can be cleaned of all
what?
what is there to be cleaned?
she is not a piece of laundry
she cannot be washed anew
in hope for a better version
she is.
I am.

there is nothing more to it