Without Her
I watched her
through that empty mirror,
wiping tears
from her reflection.
Her hands,
steady in surgery,
guided by lessons —
each stitch,
an old memory
threaded beneath
her skin’s reflection.
She peels away
what’s left,
layer by layer,
until only the glaze
of memory clings
beneath her skin.
Now,
the mirror is whole,
nothing of her remains,
no light,
no reflection,
no trace.
Still,
I look for her there,
only to find a stranger staring back at me —
and tears running down his face.
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