"Tell me the scoop",

she says, pressing 

closer against the cold mirror.

She offers me a nectarine

from the vine that climbs

up the side of the window.

Her face is framed by the window

pane that scoops

across the room, climbing

toward the ceiling and pressing

into the crevices of the walls, sections of a nectarine

unfurling outward in every direction yet mirroring

each other. My eyes, mirrored

in hers, are an open window

into my soul, nectarine 

tears falling freely in overflowing scoops

that press

against my heart only to begin their upward climb.

They climb

into my throat, tiny mirrors

of the crippling despair that press

outward until floodgates fly open and sadness pours through the window

onto her. I scoop

the tears, sweet like nectarine 

into my hands, now nectarine

puddles that spill over and climb

into the cracks of the wooden floorboard. She scoops

my face into her hands, eyes made sad to mirror

mine, but I know that she's desperately trying to see through the window

of my soul. She presses

closer, as if it will help her to press

out what truly needs to be said. She tries as hard as she can but the nectarine

juice won't flow from the fruit, my window

won't show her the truth, she's only climbing

further into the sea of uncertainty and desperation. The cold mirror

reflects her glittering eyes, anguishing as she fails to reach me and my eternally lost scoop. 

Together yet alone, we are left pressing our noses to a blocked window,

nectarine tears and broken hearts leaving us scooping

into ourselves to climb out of the pits in our hearts and search for a soul to mirror.