Mirror

[huxleys_keeper]

Maybe it was only a perfect, flat repitition.
I trusted that once your fingers were wrapped around it,
You would, as I had, see
Something you had come to love. You wouldn't.
Seven years fell out of your hands and cracked
And spliters shimmered their deadly sharp
And I lost those pieces, no matter how light attacked
Them they were invisible.

It was incomplete.
It still was a repitition of sorts.
I was still pleased.
And maybe, this time, when the handle would
Find your fingers-- time had passed--
You would see what I saw.
Maybe you didn't.
It fell. With more force.
Everything, with deafening noise,
Flew apart
Piece
By
Piece.

I almost handed it back to you.
Almost.
Then I thought better and hid it.

Only years later--
When I took out the mirror-- did
I realize you weren't breaking what I saw.