Mirror on the Wall

• Poetry

								
There I am,  
a stranger wrapped in familiar skin,  
each feature a memory,  
each crease a story—  
but I can’t remember her,  
the face that danced in my dreams,  
the voice that echoed in laughter,  
the warmth of her smile,  
a whisper lost to time.

What’s the point of from this place I stand?  
When the stories crumble  
like old leaves at my feet,  
and the echoes fade,  
replaced by silence,  
thick and heavy,  
a shadow filling the corners  
where our moments used to live.

I press my fingertips to the cool surface,  
hoping to feel her warmth,  
to trace the outline of her laughter  
and capture a piece of joy  
that slips through my fingers  
like sand on a windy day.  
But the more I look,  
the less I know.

I search for clues:  
a twinkle of a secret smile,  
those eyes that held galaxies,  
but all I grasp is the weight  
of shadows in the spaces  
between who I was  
and who I am now.

Why does the mirror keep showing me this?  
Why can’t I just remember her?  
As if she never stood here,  
as if our stories were borrowed,  
lost in a breeze,  
dancing away  
before I could even grasp their meaning.
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