Her legs crossed, propped
on a dressing table. Slip
ghosting her thigh, slippers
half-off her feet.

The lamp hums.
Light thick as honey
along her shoulder,
pooling in the hollow
where sweat gathers.

The air is wet enough to breathe.
We do.

Three profiles, two mirrors.
In one, a towel on a hook,
a door half-open to the hum of waves.
In the other, her face, mine behind it,
blurred by salt we carried in.

How many doors make a room,
how many mirrors make a person?
You can’t tell what’s reflection,
what’s escape.

This motel
on Tybee Island,
where the paint blisters,
where she holds my gaze in the glass,
and the air buzzes with gone things.

A dare. A mercy.
She’s the one
who knows the frame,
has lived inside worse,
keeps still enough
to make the story ache.

When she moves, it’s small,
a breath against my throat,
as if to say stay, or stop.
Salt cracks where our skin
touched the wall.
I look too long, pretend it’s art.

The camera isn’t ours.

The light burns low.
The shutter answers.
In the glass, no one moves.