Sometime between January and this Thursday morning, I crossed a border; I unlocked a door, and I never noticed.
This new world, this world I didn't know before, knows me by slapping new and carefully written labels on my forehead; it says, I'm emotionally unavailable. I didn't know I was. I don't feel like I am:
But I am perhaps a one-way street. For you I am a highway; for your dusty old trucks of drinks and laughs, for all the times you mention somebody else's name, for all the chilled meta conversation behind us. There's no border control; I, my nation, allow you in; always have, always would.
Though you cannot find employment here, you cannot buy a house, and your currency does you no good. You're not here to stay.
And I am here, in the next layer, watching my new labels in a mirror; I don't know how I got here, I don't know where I am. I don't know where I'm going. All my rules are a decade old and out of date; I know new ones have been written, but I'm not sure I was the one to write them.
But I look away; and here's the sky, and here's the trees, and the world is greater than one mirror. It always have been. Always will be.