The Mirror

   I have been to full of tears, to full of anguish, to even begin to express myself. Even in this, my writing. I'm so empty of anything beautiful. I am only tears shed for a dead man, uselessly falling to touch him.
   I have gazed into the eyes of the corpse in the mirror. She has seen to much, felt to many horrors, to much pain. She has lost light and no longer feels pain. I envy her this. I envy her that lack of feeling.
   Her eyes are burdened by all the unshed tears. In her eyes is a kind of horrific truth, a terrifying loveliness, a terrible peace. She has beauty, only in the fact that she no longer feels.
   In my mirror, she stares at me and I at her. We envy each other and she looks away. We cannot stand the weight of what lies in our souls. Both are touched, to deeply, by what we see in the other.
   Hate, love, pain, peace. I graze my fingertips against the glass, touching her face. She is dead, this living corpse. In her eyes is a truth I do not understand. In her gaze I find no hope for what is to come.
   Touched by to much pain, to many horrors passing before our eyes. We long to lie down, just to rest for awhile. To rest in each other's arms, let the world drift by. Just to slip away from all this.
   In her eyes is death. In the mirror, in my eyes, in the gaze of a corpse. In my eyes, in my truth. She can see. She knows what lies ahead. Let me go, drift to her side of the mirror. Hidden forever where she is.
   In my mirror.