Without Mirrors

He forgot how his jaw used to stretch in loud laughter. No mirrors to watch his days— just windows, and distant eyes. His beard trimmed by finger’s feel, a chunk missed Here and there. He looked well in belts and socks, even handsome under the sun. No one asked if he still knew the shaded glint in his own eyes— the torn shape of manly lips once easily thinned in witty smile. He dressed in shiny clothes, well ironed out but creased inside. Sometimes, he caught a flicker in silvery spoons he barely looked. And so he lived like seamless shape, without his twin staring in mirrors.