this mirror doesn't look like it used to;
jigsawed together in dichotomous consummation.

fireflies once loved in falsetto,
now plumb to umber,
no less mystical
rather walking in slumber.
windows carry weight
and light is no longer peaching.
hands never raised,
no longer reaching.
hushed desire perched on lips,
showing but never speaking.

it's the loudness of action,
reaping what you sow.

fireflies once loved in falsetto.