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.