Sun in the Mirror

I can see the reflection of the sun through the door in the South wall of our room that you left open when you went to work.  The mirror in the hallway captures its ambition and shrinks it to the 36 inch by 24 inch cherry-stained frame.  In the translation, all warmth is lost, along with green leaves, chirping birds and dark sunglasses.  All that remains is a yellow ball.  I hold my hand up with pallid tattooed fingers to hide the glare, and even the yellow ambition darkens except where it explodes red out from between my closed fingers, and I hope for dreams.  I know it is a futile dream because around the corner of that Southern door, the day waits also for me.  It sits silently anticipating my ambition will clatter against the cherry-stained frame of my own self-perception reflection: that I am incapable and undeserving of happiness.  So, like the sun in the mirror, I only, but just sort of, exist.

Tendrils
is the kind of word to use
when describing the arms that engulf
me and you:
snaking underneath arms
and over backs
and down sides
and across necks.