The mirror and I aren’t

on speaking terms

right now.

Neither of us wants

to be the first

to say I’m sorry.

You know how it is—

the same stubbornness,

the same staunch conviction

in our own infallibilities.

But. So many

decades knitting

us together

like a badly-healed bone.

Those nicknames

for each other

we’ve never spoken aloud.

(Butterbug. Pookita. Triangle Tits.)

Our quest for the shade

of red lipstick

that will finally solve

all our problems.

(The latest is called

Hibiscus Headwound,

almost perfect.)

But all that’s

on hold

during our current standoff.

One of us

will come around—

we always do.

A sudden,

prolonged sob of regret,

like a damp rag

dragged against glass.

Then back to the grim business

of visibility,

of daylight

and its unseemly touches.

At least neither of us are

alone with this

inexcusable face.