This girl in the mirror,
With flushed cheeks and wide eyes,
She is me;
But I know her not.
I have never met her;
Or spoken to her.
We have never strolled together,
Commenting on the day
And how things aren't what they used to be.
We haven't sat down,
And dined side-by-side.
She is the utmost stranger to me.
Yet when I study her face,
With its pale skin and pointed nose;
When I stare into her eyes,
So deeply that green is all that exists,
I feel that for her
I am a book well-known,
With a creased spine
And softened pages from multiple readings.
I feel like a worn forest path,
Known so well it can be walked blind.
For she knows me more than I know her.
This silent girl in the mirror knows me,
Do I know me?