Stand before the silver and the world tilts strange:
your left becomes right, your certainty becomes echo.
You lean in, and something leans in first—
a future, a twin, a rumor of who you might be.
Does your reflection look at you
with eyes that wonder if you’re the silhouette?
Or do you look at it thinking it is only an outline
while both of you wait for the other to blink first?
I raise my hand; it raises the question.
Which of us began the motion?
Which of us believes the story of being real?
Mirrors don’t reverse the body—
they reverse the meaning.
They take the self you think you own
and return it slightly off-axis,
a truth rewritten in light.
Here is the paradox:
the mirror needs me to exist,
yet every time I look,
it teaches me a version of myself
I haven’t lived into yet.
I am the breath warm on the glass;
it is the breath that never fogs.
I am the reason; it is the record.
I am the living shape;
it is the unkillable question.
Touch the cold surface—
feel how thin the divide truly is.
You are not the original,
and neither is your reflection.
You are each other’s frontier,
each other’s myth,
each other’s necessary lie.
In the end, the mirror does not show who you are.
It shows the moment before you decide—
the quiet, trembling space
where both of you wait to become real.
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