Steamed Mirrors

I fog up

the cool silver glass

with hot air from my lungs,

the kind that whispers

of attainable dreams,

the kind that could fill a balloon

- they don’t float without gas -

my face blurs,

lost in a translucent echo,

a shadowy glimpse of myself

in the misty realm of the looking glass.

I get lost in the haze of wonderland

for a moment

then I draw my face anew

so that,

at least, in steamed mirrors,

all of my heart

shows

visibly