Reflection

In two opposing french doors
I thought I saw my reflection,
a girl in a skirt
creased from sitting
to eat breakfast,
our boots remembering
the same left-right, left-right tap.

And then, at the door handle,
she paused,
as if she'd supposed I was her reflection too,
and wanted to test
the space that seemed to ripple out before her.

And finding myself singular
in front of those doors,
she became just another girl
with cold knees walking
towards the sidewalk
home.