A spoon reflecting back

A spoon, reflecting back,

the silver warped my face.

I saw the line, a dark track,

where a space once held its place.

It wasn't much, just a sliver,

a small, private open door.

But it was mine, a shiver

of air I don't feel anymore.

The orthodontist, he had plans.

To close the fault, make things neat.

Now they stand, like two tin cans,

pressed close, incomplete.

Too tight, they feel, like strangers

forced to share a bed.

The gap is gone, the dangers

of air, the words unsaid.