I stand before the mirror,
and I know the face.
Calm, composed,
eyes carrying only what they’ve lived,
no more.
But behind it,
the glass keeps going—
reflections trailing into the dark,
a long corridor
of me becoming
me becoming
me.
At first,
they follow faithfully.
A lifted hand.
A turning head.
Perfect mimicry,
clean as water mirroring sky.
But the further they go,
the more they soften—
not all at once,
not enough to alarm.
A hesitation.
A fraction too long between blinks.
A smile that holds
for a moment after I’ve let go.
The next face seems
just slightly dimmer—
as if the light can’t quite reach it,
or it doesn’t want to be seen
too clearly.
The eyes are the same,
but they don’t land on mine
so easily.
They graze past me,
settle somewhere just beyond.
And further still,
the faces forget their place.
One tilts before I do.
One breathes when I don’t.
Some begin to still altogether—
perfectly motionless,
like portraits
remembering how to be alive.
The change is never sharp.
It is a slow turning of a wheel
beneath still water,
a quiet drift
in a long dream.
Each face is mine,
but less so.
Each carries something in the eyes
I haven’t earned yet—
or never will.
Deeper down the glass,
the faces seem older
not in years
but in silence.
They wear composure
too tightly,
like masks that forgot
how to come off.
And at the furthest depth—
so far the glass hums with distance—
one face no longer mimics at all.
It only watches,
calm,
unmoving,
as if it has been here
far longer
than I have been looking.
And I don’t know
if it waits for me
to catch up,
or
to leave.