Never in my life have I seen eyes as empty as hers.
They’re brighter than she’ll ever see, wider than she thinks she can dream,
And I know it’s only a start, but she laughs when I tell her,
“I need to replace your mirror. It doesn’t let you see things straight.”
She laughs with her mouth, never with her eyes,
Telling me I say nothing but lies,
But she doesn’t realize that my entire universe is one big tsunami tide
Of pitch black waves whipping back and forth and in and out of drowning,
And in all of that she’s my lighthouse.
She doesn’t know that I’m always stubbing my toes, crashing into things in the dark,
Even when the lights are on.
I spot her, though, even in my sleep.
Just as I did that night I saw her across the field
Beneath a blanket of stars, fireworks, and smoke rings;
A crimson stripe on her cheek.
I could be her postcard.
I could be hers.
In my dreams, her white lips have a way of brushing against mine.
When we’re lying in the roads,
We remind ourselves with every passing streetlight and flipped bird that the world runs by our clocks. No one else’s.
I could kiss you until I took your breath away.
Instead, your eyes are empty.
My lips, bare.
And I’m still staring at you from across a field,
Beneath a blanket of stars, fireworks, and smoke rings,
And I’ve yet to fix the mirror hanging above my bathroom sink