One day, I will meet you. My face
in ruins. Pink skin like thrift store taffeta,
and you will say nothing.
I will be with child. High school sweetheart
gripping tight to my left hand.
There will be mascara draining
from the ledges of my empty, hand me down blue eyes,
but the streetlights will fill me up effectively.

If I see you any time soon,
it will be because we miscalculated,
kept our heads up for a second too long on the street.
I will open my mouth to spill out my mirror practiced monologue,
I'm just like you, so they say. Callous and Shifting.
But my dry mouth will close tight around the first vowel, swallowing hard.

Your eyes will look through me.
Because you, like all things, must pass.