Blur at dawn

“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”.

The real you

It is never a start or an end

but is present 

like air, or the earth,

so whole and invisible,

so much, yet so little

of what we 

perceive as real.

It never really is an intention

nor a thought,

or even a wish 

in the slightest.

But creeps up on you

while you are distracted

pursuing an alternate truth.

Harsh, maybe, but is also

a mirror,

of what cannot be sought

or seen,

for where indeed 

do you draw

a line, between yourself

and the enemy?