When you fall asleep, I dress up in winter clothes and sing silently into all the mirrors. I pretend you're singing with me, batting at me with the end of your scarf or pulling my woolen cap over my eyes and dashing off to the next piece of silvered glass. You mouth the words and it looks like you're singing with my voice. We dance, carefully, trying not to slip in our socks. Our steps are slow and soft, each of us in the habit of performing unaccompanied.

I sing to the you in the mirror, the you that looks like me. When I finally return to our bed, I wake up often to peek over at you so I can catch you if you're ever singing back.