To start all over is how you open your eyes once more to mirrors which have made you into what you are now, these mirrors playing semblances along, rendering the most peculiar feelings. But it is not entirely how you look through them, sometimes it's how they eat on you in some light, how they leave you to figure the blur, these questions so hard to lose or lift off your rational days.
One day a stranger asked in the voice of a man who first broke your heart, aware now how far you've traveled from such times. "Have you gone, grown mindless of your past." It was as if all mirrors then moved towards you, cornering, like claws to a once elusive prey, so close to rob you with its old searing light when all you could rattle by was a stare-- the safest, you guess, of all human responses.
"I've been looking all my life," he drawled as his fingers on your body now, searching for that part where your answers dwell. He was trying to tell you something-- each of his wordless sound, your inconvenience.
"I choose not to remember," you said.
As he arched his back, your fingers pulled him down, his face now on yours— as if to make sure you'd own or steal his wander for a minute — with hope after, he'd understand, from a little distance, your tearful eyes.
|No more invitations, telegrams and calls for those who never arrived!|