The mirror only as deep as
how far the wall is, behind me.
Where the light stops.
A summary longing
nitpicking the legitimacy
of the sky and its cadence,
revelations in a crescendo.
Here, here, and here.
Where it sings,
where it is silent,
where I think something
can begin
Caprice and shadows
like paint, in gradients,
warm and thick to the touch
on one side, and vibrant
like obsession,
the smell of blood,
the sound of fever breaking,
inching towards the place
where the wall is naked
and hums some inconsequential
memory, run thin like water.
I press my palm against
each breath of change,
a dance towards stillness.
The sky is real because
we are under it and no one
has touched it yet. Here
on the other side of
the mirror, where
the story is right to left.

Image from “Interior, Night” Dior Magazine April 2013
by photographer Camilla Akrans


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