​A mirror shows me line and seam, A careful, practiced, painted face; I measure up to an old dream, Seeking some transient, fleeting grace. ​But when I turn my gaze to you, I ask a question soft and low: Beneath the light, the world we knew, Is this the way I ought to glow? ​Is it the cut of cloth I wear, The confident, sharp sound I make, Or do you see beyond the surface there, The quiet shape my spirit takes? ​Do faults seem softer, edges blurred, When filtered through your gentle sight? Is every tentative, whispered word Translated into something bright? ​I know the truth the glass will keep— A fickle, ever-changing score. But in the promise of your sleep, I search for what you see, and more. ​So tell me, with your honest eyes, Before the hurried world begins, Beyond my efforts and my guise, Does your heart find where beauty wins? ​Just tell me simply, without fear, With all the warmth your feelings hold: In the reflection held so near, Do I look good in your eyes, untold?