Pass your hand across the pages of the book in your lap. They are rough, yet smooth. Strong, but weak. It makes so much sense, but then none at all. I remain silent as I watch you. Your beautiful hands turning the pages, your eyes filled with tears, face flushed and red are your lips as you’ve been biting them. Yet, you are beautiful.
Please, dear, let me look into those beautiful eyes of yours, though they are filled with tears. They’re incredible as they stare back at me in wonder. Don’t you trust me? I have shown my utter devotion to you; it appears you are amazed. It is I, who should be amazed though, because nothing could ever be nearly as amazing as you, my dear.
Do you ever look back to the way we met? Just in a store when you spotted me. You ran up so quickly, said you wanted me and now we’re here. Here is beautiful, isn’t it?
Beautiful.
I watch from the place I sit, identical to the place you, yourself sit, as you close the book. I am doing the same as you do, mimicking you, as you may see me. But you turn your back to me instead. I watch as you return the book to it’s shelf and I do the same, still watching you.
I raise my voice to tell you how beautiful you are, but there is a beat of silence as you turn to face me, and I am amazed. We both walk forward, tears in our eyes from the book we had been reading together from our own separate copies. You are so beautiful, even when crying, that I can hardly stand it. I stare at you as you do me and we each raise a hand to touch the others’ and just as our hands will touch, it only meets the glass that is separating us. You bow your head slightly as I do my own, before we both turn and walk out of your bedroom door in expert synchronization. You, happy about the ending of the book you had read, and I, wallowing in sadness, knowing you will never love me as I do you. You will forever hate me, as I am not perfect like you. I, being your timid reflection.
