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You spin me fine red threads
with assonances and alliterations
and I
knit them into soft warm wool
and make me a snug sweater
I could slip into when I’m cold
but then you’d
unravel me to my skin
and all the embroidered lines
and crocheted rhymes
would be on the floor
then we start again

I look into your eyes
and you look into my eyes
iris(es) of/on Iris pulling you in
and I write what I see / while you look at me /
writing what I see / you looking at me
(it goes on and on)
like light, thin and sharp
as blades
cutting so close to the heart
bouncing as they do
in a hall of mirrors

the refractions of our likeness
searching me inside and out
rear view,
side view,
full frontal
leaving me nowhere to hide

it’s grown-ups’ RPG
sitting face to face
like a contest of wills
a compliment here
a sweet word there
impeccably aimed to
miss the target
as many times as we
masterfully can:

whoever falls in love first

but baby isn’t this
getting out of hand?

I’ve got enough ammunition
and though it tortures me
waiting on you
to get done pretending
that you’re waiting on me
I won’t let you catch on
if only you’d see past the distraction
and look more closely at my reflection