The mirror is a cage, a frame made of gloss,

The glances of passers‑by are like a sticky fog.

Here, everyone longs to stay with you,

But they see only the surface — a vast ocean.

You’ve donned cynicism like a chain mail,

So as not to let emptiness seep under the glass.

In a world where they focus on shapes and patterns,

Your heart has long since been taken over by cold.

It’s not coldness, it’s a shield made of unspoken rules.

I’m so afraid that you’ll become just like all the others.

Your beauty is a cross that fate has left for me,

Among empty compliments and sticky lies.

You look into my eyes, but you’re looking for a reflection there,

You’re looking for a painting, but I don’t want to be one.

The fear of being noticed is what draws you in,

I’m just learning, under your mask, not to forget you.