every little thing that you do

i've watched you
through the windows of your third floor
apartment, and i know you've got
a whole closet full of replacement appendages,
an arm and a leg for each season. i've seen you
in front of your mirror, giving yourself looks,
lifting a foot, deciding which limb is right
for each given night. i know all your secrets already,
but i can't stop watching. and i know you know
i'm here; your mirror games have grown
more elaborate and you linger longer each night,
each move measured, weighed, calculated
for the eye of the observer.

our unspoken agreement is beginning to chafe;
the flowers which show up at your apartment door,
which now guild the edges of that cursed mirror:
they are the first sign that i am slipping.
these shoes that i am holding; i think they fit
the size of one or two of your sets of feet.
they came from a little girl who was almost
as beautiful as you. i came out from my hole
the other day; it had been ages. the red will
match the most recent roses i have sent you,
which will certainly be arriving soon.

sometimes i turn my gaze away,
to the security guard in your lobby, just to see
how big a breach would be needed to break through
the barrier between us. i'd like to hold up a hand
for you to fasten on, or tell you which fingers are the most
appropriate for an occasion. i'd like to take you apart,
limb by limb, and help you decide the way in which to put
yourself back together again. oh my detachable bride,
in my mind we will order the parts to piece you together,
and wait for the mailman to arrive. i will give you
my foot, if you give me your hand. i will be sending you
these shoes shortly.