by Nick Gisburne
I see it, every night, the ghost of you,
An apparition, disconcerting, strange.
It taps the mirror, never breaking through,
But always there are words, a brief exchange.
Amusing reminiscences, at first,
The pick of precious moments from our past,
But soon we whisper only of the worst,
While somehow never mentioning the last.
Another face, forgotten, fills the glass,
A memory, an echo of your death.
The mirror bends, permitting it to pass.
Through twisted time I feel your final breath.
Your ghost is gone, released, forever free.
The soul inside the mirror, trapped, is me.
