The girl in my favorite jacket
with my exact shade of hair.
The one with my same freckles
and that unamused stare.

She knows me more than anyone
and, at the same time, not at all.
So many noted, collected traits
but without the final call.

Kind or fun or silly
or whatever I may seem.
I know each of the parts of me
But what do they all mean?

The mirror shows me what I know
from outside, not within.
My reflection, both in and outwards,
leads to no conclusion.

I stare at them in earnest
with hope to realize
and as they stare back I ask myself,
what color are my eyes?