Leaning against a door frame,

He gently flicked black hair out of his eyes.

His deep purple shirt, one size too tight,

Gripped his small frame,

Exposing his contours.

He clearly noticed I was staring,

Yet he looked away out of respect.

I noticed his averted pupils constrict slightly

And wondered what he was thinking.

It was difficult for me to imagine

That what I was looking at wasn't real.

I don't know why I tried.

What good is fiction if exposed to scrutiny?

Yet he was really there, in a way.

The mirror of reality realizes itself through its own obtuseness.

I put on a white t-shirt and looked down at myself.

My limited perspectives are the only reality of myself that I have:

A camera, a mirror, and a downward angle

Define my physical form.

My hands are the actors in a great play

That spans an entire lifetime.

What I see is real. But I saw him, and he is not.

Or rather, he was, and no longer is.

Do I bend, or does everything else?

I chose everything else.

With that choice, I destroyed reality.