Yi
We used to play by the riverbank,
skipping pebbles and
peering into its reflective waters
in the summer heat.
We'd point each other out and laugh,
"now we're quadruplets," and then
we'd push each other into the stream
'till all that's left is each other
and each other's mirror's dream.
We used to pretend to be the other,
go into each other's bathrooms and
try to pee the other way
(for five minutes 'till pants wet).
We used to like the same people,
and get teased by the same bullies.
Our teachers told us we were like
reflections across a frosted mirror:
can't have one without the other;
can't be different without the same.
Now you're in London somewhere far;
I'm about four thousand miles away.
We don't talk as much anymore,
nor pretend we have two more twins
at the beck and call of every stream.
This night is starless and cold,
the caffeine can't hold me down,
I find myself in the bathroom stall,
staring into my dark reflection,
who is also you,
still there,
always there:
you.
And we've been here since forever,
and we'll always be together,
through the boundless mirror.
