“the image in mirror is never formed“
I copied this slowly
from my friend’s notes,
reading too much into it.
I moved my hands
over the new definition of real.
I traced the lines, the dull path of light
as faithfully as I could
but the solid blue lines of ink touch the glass
and are broken cleanly by the laws of reflection, every time.
Only I am left in this world of real stuff
tracing back the path
that only their changed selves could have taken.
But what difference does that make?
People who have changed
do they even want those old dreams?
Probably not, for all I see are points abandoned,
in the world of unpublished fiction
surrounded by crosses of dotted lines,
like the ones that are meant to be torn slowly.
“the image in mirror is never formed“
But it is there, in front of me.
By some miracle they exist
even when they don’t.
Doesn’t that count as real?
The emptiness in me
and in it your face.
Doesn’t that count as real?
it rains in my heart 
