I’ve lost my reflection

And finding it is bucket listed

above the Greek Islands

But below retirement.

I don’t yet know if it is

In your mirrored glasses

Or

In a puddle on potted asphalt

But I sense its existence

In my warm breath

In this cold air

And maybe there’s a mirror

In a damp corner of my past

In a shitty terrace house

And I am there, laid bare

And brimming with

Anticipation.