“Who sees the human face correctly:
the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?”
P Picasso
I look at him staring
back at me,
Its gaze is heavy and
tired,
I don’t recognize him…
…not fully.
Who are you? I ask,
But there is no sound
-I must have used my
inner voice-
And as expected, no
answer came.
I remember you…
…or at least the idea
of you.
You are not what I
imagined,
Yet, I wonder if I am
what you desired as well.
-probably not-
I accept you, and you
me,
Like we have done many
times before.
And with a faint smile
I say…
“…Morning”.
