#ance

at the edge of my vision.

am I imagining it?

nay, I am not.

it's you.

I heard your voice as the voice of a stranger

now I know it was you all along.

but your voice is calling my name

and I wonder why

what ghost of the past

what past me

was worth remembering?

and I hear your voice calling my name

and I think

how do you know me still

I'm a shell of who I was.

how do you know me?

who am I?

if you know to call my name

does that mean I still have a name

does that mean I'm a person

that I just can't see?

everything crumbles

time tears everything down

nothing stays

but what about me?

have I lost myself

has time moved on leaving my consciousness here?

stuck beyond a time it should have faded

or been ripped, by other violent means

stayed too long and now I don't know it

I look in the mirror, there's only a stranger.

this is why I usually don't

look in the mirror.

I prefer to pretend I know myself

a pretty, but flimsy, pretence.

whenever I catch sight of myself

my words as well

I wonder whose mouth shaped those

whose fingers?

mine? but I've crumbled to dust

inside, I'm but dust:

empty, and old,

and when others look inside me