You held the glowing rectangle up between yourself and the wall of silver, and for one long breath there were two of you: the one flexing and the one taking the picture, both frowning at the little dead numbers on the phone. I was in the room, waiting, folding the day's leftovers into my apron.
I saw what you didn't. I saw how many times your thumb hovered before it pressed. I saw the boy on the next bench you pretended not to compare yourself to.
Here is what I will do with all of it. Tonight the mirror will be water, standing straight up like a held breath, and you will walk into it without splashing. Your reflection will not copy you. It will wave, and go on lifting a barbell made of your grandmother's rolling pin, and you will not find this strange.
The phone will keep counting, but the numbers will be birds, and they will fly out the window one at a time until the last one is just a warm feeling with no total attached.
The frown you carried in, the one about not being enough of something, I will misplace it around two a.m. I am not very organized. I set things down and they become other things. By the time I look for that frown again it will have turned into the smell of your first apartment, and you will be happy and you will not know why.
Then the light will come under the door and someone will say your name from the real world, and I will thin, and lift, and be gone before you can describe me. That is fine. You keep the warm feeling.
I only borrowed the rest.