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I see her, and she does not see me,

Yet in her unknowing lies my quiet refuge.

This distance, both a chasm and a balm,

Allows me to linger in the radiance of her being.

Her speech is the melody of the heavens,

A hymn that bids the soul remain

Where it first beheld such beauty,

Timeless and unyielding in its pull.

She turned, her eyes meeting her own,

And in that fleeting moment, a smile bloomed,

A gift unasked for, undeserved,

Yet treasured all the same.

I see her, and she sees herself.

The mirror between us shimmers, half-silvered,

Offering me the privilege of her light,

While sparing her the burden of my shadow.

It is no fault of mine, nor hers,

That I stand unready to face the fullness of her.

How does one prepare to meet the infinite,

To converse with the personification of wonder?

And so, I remain grateful for this veil,

This fragile boundary of reflection,

Where I may adore without intrusion,

And marvel without trembling.

When she departs, the world dims,

As though the lamps themselves mourn her absence.

The laughter of others carries less warmth,

Their smiles less folds,

Their joy dulled by the memory of her presence.

It is then that I dare to join them,

My courage returning with her retreat.

For my trembling heart rests easier

When the dream I cannot touch has passed.

Yet, when I look upon the mirror,

I glimpse a stranger’s eyes, filled with longing,

Meeting mine in silent communion.

The lights flicker, a knowing wink,

And I smile, for I see now the truth:

The half-silvered mirror was never silvered at all.

It is not her sight of me I fear,

But my own gaze, unsteady and unsure.

Perhaps, in boldness, the mirror will shatter,

And in its shards, I will find not a stranger,

But courage

To meet the infinite with open hands.

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