some nights he wonders
why his fingers are
lonely branches in the
breeze, why no thing nor
person is tight around his
waist, why his college acceptance
rate is a charming 1%.
he knows it is just a
mirror — he walks
closer anyway and
pretends he's in love,
says it won't be like
this, that only he'll love himself
forever, that only glass
separates them; he believed
every word, so he leans
forward and kisses those
cold lips tasting of
breath, musk and never;
the universe was cruel but
this was nice, he thought.
he left his lover without
saying goodbye, knowing
someone would always be
waiting for him.