I place myself there, just there,
On the corner of the bed.
One foot rests upon the sea, the other in the wood.
I place you there, on the same corner
Staring back at me
To see myself.
I paint white lace gloves on your fingers,
Rubbing the inside of your knees.
I see the reluctant sinew
Staring back at me,
Searching for yourself.
On the corner of the bed we sit,
Gazing into ourselves
And into the eyes of the other.
We are a clouded mirror of the other form.
There you sit,
And this would be mine.
Yes, this still would be mine.