The Mirror Had a Name
How well do I recognize you?
Well enough to trace
the shape of your silence
in a crowded room—
to name the wind
incidentally your hair catches it,
to predict your upcoming breath
from the tremble in your fingertips.
You laugh in the same way you're hiding a violin in your chest,
and walk as you're balancing
a thousand quiet revolutions in your shoes.
You produce burnt coffee feel identical to an elixir
and rainy Mondays sound typical of jazz.
I have watched you dream with your eyes ajar,
flirting with possibilities
you dare not write down.
You speak of love in the manner of both
a weapon and a lullaby—
sharp, soothing, inevitable.
Yes, I sense you.
The freckle on your left wrist,
the crack in your voice when you lie,
the way you smile
just before breaking something pleasing—
even if it’s just the silence between us.
But here’s the twist—
you are not my partner.
You never were.
You were the version of me
I couldn’t admit I adored.
The shadow I danced with
when no one was watching.
The stranger in the mirror
I mistook for someone else
because I was too afraid
to view myself completely.
Copyright © Bernard F. Asuncion | Year Posted 2025
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