Autumn-colored eyes sparked with humor.
Small, white teeth grasped his lower lip.
Mirrors never bedeviled him; he ignored them.
Like portraits, he said, by an uninspired artist.
Glare leaches out every hint of individuality.
Brushstrokes seem too broad, perspective flat.
Reflection’s just an inverse map to shave a chin.
His head tilted, shoulders tipped in conversation.
He sought no moon-faint image in a flat glass.
It cannot capture his spirit, no need to drape it.