Sylvie Hill

Reflections, this season …

Muse: you’re fucking with my chi. It’s a one-way mirror where you’re blocked but I can see you and today I looked, by chance, saw you shot in a rearview mirror – but I had my lady looking glass, YESTERDAY. When did yours go up; does my head in, that’s another Code Red coincidence, only, involving a mirrored reflection! Just as I was writing my last letter to you TONIGHT, wrapping up my fucking collection. That’s the second time I write, then your visuals pick up in tandem. Of course the umpteenth time you’ve responded in kind without seeing the question. I saw your pipes I texted after midnight, pecs in an outline of a shirt, solid chest I wish to Christ I could remember. I talk to myself, laughing saying “SEE, this is so crazy!” as the sailor in me on a Hero Quest toward Museless please & 40, in a Robot Voice, says: abandon ship, abandon ship… he’s just a goddamn mermaid, SIRENS BLAZING: come ON, what’s up with that shit?! Est-ce possible? I resist, resign myself that it’s any meaning for you used to match your ex-girlfriend’s head, so whatever, and eat a profiterole instead. Fucking social media raising buried Muses from the dead. By the way, did you see the code in the mirror to the left? I’m a fucking genius, bereft, that is. Even concealed the ‘s,’ and the last line sorta doesn’t make sense but writing on a girl’s tits? Yea, I thought you’d approve of in an instant, dick. I laugh and I jest then I remember that we only carried on like this in our heads. In person, you fogged shit up, made it blurry, left a mess. And baby, this time, I’m packing Windex …

SH 2014