there weren't enough mirrors
in the house
for the both of us
to preen in.
young, we were, pretty
and unlined.
at least in our own eyes.
she went her own way though,
and i went mine,
aging apart.
we are both now i imagine
down to the reflection
in our toasters,
our spoons, our glasses
of dark wine,
squinting at our image
in the distorted
blur called time.
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