Mirror Me

It is hard to believe there isn't another person in the room when I stare at her and she stares back at me. The flowing earth-scorched hair pulled away from a sharp face, presenting an aura of restraint and control. Sparkling hazel eyes, dulled by glasses that attempt to bridle the enchanting looniness that secretly bubbles beneath, which longs to break free and terrorise the next unsuspecting victim.1

I reach out to touch one of the pale lips that is now quirking mockingly at the action. She holds up her own palm to mine, as if to ward away the ensuing pain she knows when I realise I cannot reach her and she is a world away from my heart.2

I turn my back to her and once again returns the feeling of emptiness and isolation that comes from being incomplete.3

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