The green ceramic pitcher on the table is full of water from last night.
I am there to hold you, I think.
I am at a loss as to what that means, especially what it could mean.
A looking-glass stares back at me.
Gazing dead ahead on the bed
After dinner after dark,
A print in a frame on the wall perpendicular to the windows
Caught in a beam from the streetlight on the corner.
I tried to make out the images I already knew were in the picture.
I tried to pretend that that had no bearing on what I could define in the dark.
I was shaving the next morning when the bathroom mirror fell.
It fell into the sink and shattered.
I tried to complete my shaving in one of the pieces,
Turning it carefully to capture parts of my face in detail.
I decided to use another of the pieces to shave with instead of my razor.
I could not get all of my face.
The mirror had not been broken evenly.
I could not stop the many, many nicks from bleeding.
I died later that day.