I fell in love with our reflection
in the mirror on my bedroom door
but you saw smudges
when all I saw was
the shiny quality of falsehood
which is all too temporary
when I’m the only one willing it to be true.
and I sit here
filling up all the pages
crying all of the tears
realizing that the truth
is dull like the pencil I’m writing with
and while I wish
I could sharpen this pencil
and move on with my life
I think I’d rather snap the lead
and beg for you
to put it back together
just like I’d rather crack
our smudged up mirror
then wipe it clean
like you and I are some sort of
marks made with pencil
or reflections made in mirrors;
there is nothing permanent about them.