A Mirror is Sand and Water As

One grain drops. Time begins, or keeps going— it’s hard to tell which. Necks pinch into purpose. Pressure makes the moment's weight— its glass throat narrows in, knowing: the longer it holds, the less it means. We reflect shapes only edges can name. We reflect edges only shapes can name. The longer it holds, the less it means— its glass throat narrows in, knowing pressure makes the moment's weight. Necks pinch into purpose. It’s hard to tell which. It keeps going— time begins. Grains drop. One. One eye blinks. You were here— then you weren’t. Dust settles in the bowl of what we almost kept. Hands can learn from repeating. As they grow, smoother, more resigned, an hourglass flips with no permission. No one votes on the descent of return. No one votes on the return of descent. An hourglass with no permission flips. It just grows smoother, more resigned. My hands learn from the repeat, of what I almost keep, settled in the bowl— you are now dust. You aren't here. Eye blinks. One.