a mirror doesn’t reflect.
 it displaces.

what you see
 isn’t yourself—
  it’s the memory
    of something
    someone once
      called “you.”

you lean in—
  the outline shifts.
not face.
 not skin.
 but the memory
  of being touched
    without asking.

a mirror is not surface.
 it’s a fold
  where presence
        bleeds.

there is no glass.
only
    gravity—
and gravity
  remembers
    better
      than you.

and sometimes,
  gravity / giggles / when you forget / which way / the floor is.

—