Seeing Through Mirrors

Karianne Hornberger

I see you.
Like a magnet, I am drawn to you.
Like the moon with her stars scattered far and wide, I recognize a messy sky.
From my seat in the clouds, I see the shape of your towers, the textures of your walls,
and the colors of your memories.
All around, I hear the sounds of somewhere distant from this time and place, longing to
be brought to life like jasmine flowers blooming in the light from your core.
The flowers have no place to bloom amongst the sticky webs inside.
What do these webs feel like?

Should they be untangled?

Do you want them to be untangled?

I wanted to ask you, but something stopped me.
I, too, have a web. Painful and confusing; a tangled mess of vines and leaves with
thorns exposed along the surface of each vine. We are like mirrors from two different
matching sets, each searching for the fragments of our other halves. We are not from
the same set, but we recognize in each other that feeling of longing for something
denied by forces beyond our control.
I feel the vines moving, reaching out with a yearning to connect with you. But the thorns
of my vines catch on the invisible fibers of my cloud, lost in the misty particles of my
mind, unable to reach your moonlit web.
I am frozen, stuck in fear.
Fear…

The ache of longing stays, but the fear of pain wedges the thorns deeper in place.
I am conflicted, afraid to move, afraid to feel.
I remain in the dark, with no light to reflect rainbows in these skies. I see you, but you
cannot see me…
And so, I long to be seen.
And so, I wonder if you too, long to know
you are seen