Each morning I watch her paint precision
onto her face—geometry in taupe and rose,
while I remain unmade, a rough draft
slouching in wrinkled cotton.
She strides in Italian leather,
her heels striking marble like metronomes.
I pad barefoot through empty rooms,
leaving fingerprints on dusty windowsills.
Her voice carries board room authority,
slides smooth as polished granite.
Mine catches on consonants,
stumbles over simple greetings.
At night, she removes her armor:
pins, pressed wool, perfect seams.
Beneath it all, I find her there—
raw-faced, wild-haired, familiar.
We share this skin, this mirror,
this daily transformation.
Sometimes I wonder which of us
is the reflection, which the source.
In dreams, we blur together
like watercolors in rain,
until I can no longer tell
where she ends and I begin.
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