‘tis true, of that murky, mercurial mirror, there are still some slivers
As its sort is not easily forgotten, and aye we are not both givers
Though I had hoped that it’d be clearer it is boughten and delivers
at odd rodeo tussles, a rotten measure nearer to blood-polluted rivers
Do you not see it? No? The slowly progressing terminal mutation?
Which twists our friendship away from quiet, respectful adulation?
I don’t think I ask all that much now, just that, for me, you be patient
For the things worth having, I know dear, do seem to take their ages,
but I can only assure you the drafts, and all of those torn-out pages
aren’t yet worthy of any beaming smiles or tears coursing down our faces
You may not think it but I have been crafting, tinkering in this pursuit
of that perfect, not your style of vague, something so much more acute!
To tell you what I feel, what I know, some of it you may openly refute
Though most of which you’d have noticed if, well, you’re at all astute
I do often feel that what there is between us is best left gladly mute
So much of it just exists in a state beyond equal, but of similar repute
All I care about is our shared love of words so all else seems so moot
You know my pen’s paths, and where its favorite ones are to be found
Due to your familiarity, you’re the last one who I could hope to astound
In those idle moments, I think you do know my thoughts on us as well
So why? Why is it that you’re so very incontestably desperate to impel
my poison from my wounds? To eke out of my neurons any validation
that you can wholly grab? There’s been extensive, expansive dictation
on the matter so very often, in fact, it’s heard nearly every single night
So, though I’m inattentive, soften. As you weren’t listening either right?
Don’t you fear the point where all of it becomes so common and so trite?
Sure, I’ll sit down, and I can give you what you’re after, I’ll easily indite
a whole series of long poems and short stories dedicated in your name
Their value would even envy the ones past times saw for a pasttime dame
You know the one, she, who still, to this day, I would surely seek to blame
for your jealousy and uncertainty as she has obviously dually been its aim
She is now but echoes of half-whispers, the shadows of a ghostly glimmer
That white phosphorus flash behind my retina is only ever getting dimmer
For inside my mind’s looking glass she is now but a disappearing shimmer
You two held a duel, at early dawn, in grassy dew, and Sammy was the winner
Beware that your prize comes at a cost, one of a requisite need to consider
the price you’ll have to always pay, in upkeep, in tribute to your saintly sinner
I ask: as we stand together, what of us do you see painted in my pretty mirror?