Perturbed

It is my turn to be married to the mirror

To shelf this kiss she holds back from me

To hide the darkness in the memory’s angst;

She’s been gone for more than weeks

To do something we should not begrudge—

Something we ought both be bedecked by.

The sun shelters my solitude each second crossed—

Crossed by the drudgery of her absence,

The absence of my present passion aloft.

Pity me for the years begotten beyond her;

Pity me for the days earned beside her;

Pity me because I needn’t bemoan this trial

Executed in the absence of my passion present;

Pity me because the sun may change me for her.

I should be broken no more than the mirror

But of course if she has a pair of ears, they are mine

For the mirror to stay whole and never to be forlorn.