Transition

Behold—the hotel mirror, the dizzying walk up from the valet parking to the lobby to that quick conversation in the elevator

and then the parting,

the transition from being together to being

apart,

separate after hours, but my reflection in the mirror is
chalky, comical, not drunk enough to take this

solitude into myself like gasps of breath,

and Megan has COVID
and we spoke and worried and hoped over her

but her texts come back slow, and she cried, saying
no one but us knew how sick she really was,

but the mirror,
that mythical rabbit hole of reflection

transitions, refracting the reflection of
downtown Dallas, the hotmelt

streets I paced the night before
looking for food before you got here,

but the parting, it was on my tongue long
before I spoke it, the razer-sharp edge

of my palm, kneading my face, contrary
to the dance I did in the room in the dark

singing songs to you even though you weren't
here to listen to them.

I have to watch myself, susceptible to dysmorphia
when I review my monstrous reflection,

and you stepped out of the elevator first, left me
to keep going higher until I got to my room alone.