who could say

you think you hate me
when i say i know you as i know myself
when i hold that looking glass up
in front of your face with its wrinkles and spots
you see what you do not wish to see
yet i make you observe
i make you look at the details that are far too deep
to be just a fluke
but you cry
closing your eyes and covering your ears
you fear
that what i say is not a lie
that what you see is not a ghost
but a thing with life so close to you
that you realize
it is you
with your wrinkles and your spots
and the hairs that have begun to fall
and you think you hate me
for showing you this--
even as i love you--
for without these,
without the dust that falls
the birds that fly
and the fish that scatter
on the surface of the water,
to disrupt its perfect peaceful sleep,
who could say
that this is real
and not a dream?