Daily he told me I was beautiful,
my breast cupped in his palm cured
me of any doubt. So you see why
I cannot gaze at my own nakedness.
Mirrors tell you nothing about love.
The tilted fir outside my window
stands taller than our house. Even if
I described each tuft, counted
branches, became its mirror,
you could never love it as I do,
understand how it kept me faithful,
stood watch with me when the other tree fell.
Mirrors tell you nothing about love.
(via thatkindofwoman)
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