Fingerprints on the Mirror He looks in that mirror every day when he happens past it, on his way to walk the dog or cook his meals-- and he smiles a little--feels all the feels. But he doesn't see the old man walking by, linger over grey hairs or stop to cry. He smiles and feels a hand on his heart, a brush of a kiss, that missing part. He'll never wash that mirror clean: those few fingerprints must be seen-- for they are hers, she's still there in a way and so he sees her every day. Love doesn't end when someone dies, The heart lives on and memories rise. A fingerprint-- her essence remains Mind and soul are thus sustained. Eyes are mirrors to the soul and mirrors indeed reflect the whole. He stands where her touch touches him still giving him strength, and indomitable will. He must soldier on now, his time isn't done. There are things he must do, battles still to be won. So every morning he makes his way, him and the dog, through another day. On the other side of the mirrored glass, she waits for him patiently, his beloved lass. I like to think his fingers he'll touch against those on the mirror he loved so much. Some day the mirror will still hang on the wall with two sets of prints telling all of a love story that went on into infinity-- fingers forever linked for all to see. . |