She is strange to me.
I turn to look behind me for this intruder.
But there is no one there,
The room is empty.
And so I squint at the reflection. Is it feasible,
Or are my eyes deceiving me?
Parts of the image swim into focus and seem to be slightly recogniseable.
If only memory could serve me well,
I would know this distant ghost.
The vision of her begins to shimmer and fade upon the pane.
"No!" I utter,
And I reach forth my fingers.
The feel of flat, cold glass meets my fingertips,
And as I trace the reflection,
It disappeares, sliding away.
And all that remains is a reflection of the room behind me.
