What an awful, awful thing we've done;
mirror eyed, we reflect discontent in stagnant equilibrium,
your curtains pulled half down, your mouth slows.
A hesitant mourning dove, swooping low in a near motionless dance
with my own rhythmic upside down crescent moon, hungry baby birds.
"Everything is going to be okay," on repeat as we hold each other,
we won't look at each other because mirror eyes will never meet.
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