I.
how sensitive to the down feathers of our favorite flights of truth are we - is it heavy tugging the baby blanket of our generation, 
​do your eyes roll into whites from the exhaustion of fact?

​(if you are tired i am sorry.)

glass picked the wrong actress to play your reflection; she is forgetful. she does not remember all of you.

(this is not to discredit her skill in knowing a fragmentation of her role,
a physicality; 
this is not to discredit her unrivaled expertise in a singular perception 
of the many places and reality stitchings you are.)

she will remember to be eye bags but never the thought. the missed meal but never the textsomeonealmostsenttoyou, the memory and the passerby,

the collage person in the consciousness of someone that forgot to be listening to a lecture twenty minutes ago, who remembers the sound of your laugh passing them in the hallway and drifting back to sleep again but not the color of your eyes. 

your reflection is unable to dance to the many songs you are creating in the continuation of your complexity,
and her missteps are understood by everyone in the audience but you, because someone has forgotten to let your ears know there are concertos playing.

(someone has to apologize for all the love we are forgetting to tell you is yours, for all the days you are a package delivered to a wrong address that we never take back to the post.) 

the still life of glass is the tragedy you do not remember to cry for (how much forgetting we do in our time.)

in many years scientists will rebuke the theory of you, the one easy to touch and keep close to the cheek but the one still frayed and crude and not entirely whole. 

they will understand the nature of your grace
and measure the weight of your giving
with instruments that are warmer in the hand, 
tuned better to the love of your deserving.

and glass will be lowered into an archive.