The Mirror Keeps Two Sets of Books BR Wilson: Guitars & Cigars, The Bipartisan Patriot

 

The Mirror Keeps Two Sets of Books

BR Wilson: Guitars & Cigars, The Bipartisan Patriot

I wake up earlier now

not because I’m virtuous,

but because something inside me

doesn’t trust the dark anymore.

Coffee tastes like inventory.

Every sip accounting for what’s left,

what’s spent,

what I can’t quite remember buying.

There’s a kid still in here

reckless, loud,

half-drunk on bad ideas and cheap guitars,

swearing he’s got time to burn.

He paces the ribs like a tenant

who never signed the lease.

Meanwhile

the landlord shows up in the mirror

with softer eyes,

and a back that negotiates stairs

like a ceasefire agreement.

We don’t speak much.

Just nod.

Two men sharing a name

and arguing over the same pair of hands.

One wants another shot,

another night,

another reckless swing at something loud and alive

the other

counts exits in crowded rooms

and reads expiration dates

like scripture.

Time doesn’t steal from you.

That’s the lie.

It splits you

clean down the center

and makes you carry both versions

like mismatched luggage through an airport

that keeps changing gates.

Some days

I feel like a man becoming something.

Other days

I feel like something being quietly packed away.

and there’s always that one moment

middle of the day, nothing special

where you forget which one is winning.