When they first come into your bed,
Your fear is suspended,
By the way they look at you.
Like the flaws you see
Are invisible to them.

They want to touch you;
Feed off you;
Hold you and sway you
To the rhythm of their bodies.
You feel seen.
You make love.

Time changes that –
That look that drifts into routine
Is a result of repetition.
Here, practice makes boredom;
Perfection is boring.

So you once again look in the mirror
And see what you should not have missed,
All this time.
The mirror hasn’t changed.