The Source

I've written towards cornering you into some abysmally dark space, much like pushing a pearl into the depths of the universe. When it was I who was out of place.. was.. is.. even just the word "place" is such a burden upon the mind; how the multitude of meaning surrounds the snake-like sound sneaking between one's teeth, the word, an escape from responsibility: not my, the wrong, too much trust was, there isn't a. And I hope you know, you're beautiful. It was that I found myself in your perspective of me, whatever became of my reflection inside of your vanity, its frame of organic polymers smoothing the edges. But it couldn't sooth mine and reflected them your way instead; only they were razor-edged and laid across the blankets and pillows where you lay your head: a place where I thought I found you and I both, but was mistaken. It was only again, my reflection.