I find it absurd: your face, straight-on.

          There I am, inside of you. What are you made of, tell me, that my penetration is so unobstructed. So smooth. I slither around, my movements imitated. Is there a time lapse between my movements and your reflection of my movements? There must be.

To be inside would be to break me. But to look: without your world, mine would not exist. I reflect just as emptily emptiness itself. Every night, when the light turns out, in the black haze of windowless brick. Three floors above your bed I sit. I wait. You come.

          Every night I come. You wait. Three floors above my bed you sit. Every night the light is lit. Each side of my face is dissimilar to the other. My irises swell and contract when I look at the left, then the right. It must be the hallway light coming from the doorway on the right. It is hot in this attic. My skin glistens. My face is flushed. My lips, full.

Pulse. Pulse. It’s in your eyes. Night by Night by Night. Waiting. For what? What do you see in me that you can’t see by turning around? You cannot see yourself without me. I know. Can you see yourself with me? I cannot see myself with you. I cannot see myself without you. My reflection, a reflection, only.

          I find it absurd.