Mirror images. It's so cliched, so wrong, assuming there's no difference. Assuming that when I look at you I see myself; a reflection, a soulless replica. That when I look into your eyes nothing happens.
You laugh at that and lean forward, and there is nothing soulless about this - your mouth flush up against mine, your fingers opening my shirt and tracing your favorite freckles from memory. The patterns are different - on you I see angels' wings and eyes, you trail kisses along the dragons and stars you say you see on me. We moan in concert (your voice is slightly lower and I whimper) and tangle together on the sheets, bumping our heads against the bunk above us and half-hanging over the edge onto the floor.
When we come - together - sweatslick and sticky, you bite my lip and I look into your eyes again and smile. Mirror images stepped out of their glasses, naked and with bruised lips, now an intimate knot of limbs and tongues and grins and whispers on our bedroom floor. You laugh again and pull me close, and I forget about mirrors and cliches and lose myself in you.
You laugh at that and lean forward, and there is nothing soulless about this - your mouth flush up against mine, your fingers opening my shirt and tracing your favorite freckles from memory. The patterns are different - on you I see angels' wings and eyes, you trail kisses along the dragons and stars you say you see on me. We moan in concert (your voice is slightly lower and I whimper) and tangle together on the sheets, bumping our heads against the bunk above us and half-hanging over the edge onto the floor.
When we come - together - sweatslick and sticky, you bite my lip and I look into your eyes again and smile. Mirror images stepped out of their glasses, naked and with bruised lips, now an intimate knot of limbs and tongues and grins and whispers on our bedroom floor. You laugh again and pull me close, and I forget about mirrors and cliches and lose myself in you.