On one side, the pleasant face you offer at the door. Across the axis, the part of you that refuses the bridle. Lilith, the Black Moon, the calculated lunar apogee where the exiled appetite lives, faces your rising horizon, and neither pole holds up alone. The welcome you put forward keeps staring across the gap at what will not perform on cue. Some days you arrive so agreeable nobody quite wants you. Other days the refused thing splits the polished approach right open. The mirror keeps both poles pried apart. No asteroid is tugging at you here. It is the untamed angle facing the mask, and you reach others truly only while both keep answering across the distance.
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