The Mirror shows

a torn sky
beyond it, story tellers
with lies and deception,
they whisper poetry
that I still love you too much
to write.

You carry the weight
of half glances
measured through a pair
of old readers.
It will mention us one day
from someone else's wall
but they'll be too young
too care.

I wonder now how much more
will pass into its glass
before all the cracks
come at once.