Stained oak frames the mirror in my bathroom in the shape of a winding tree

I stair deep into the polished silver, looking at the dustcover god gave my soul

and I can’t help but wonder, who’s looking back at me.

He blinks as I do, moves as I move, looks similar to the picture on my facebook

but he is no me,

His eyes are green, but not sorrowful, and not guilty

His skin is pale, but not ill or sickly

His hair is dark and untidy, but he is not self-conscious.

His attire is loose, and comfortable, most of it from the retail store I work at.

In the mirror stands a man without a past, and a man who’s future only lasts

till I walk out of view. 

He has never lied to me, only shown me the world as it is on the surface.

He is the poster boy for vanity

and is only as deep as the mirror is from the wall.

He is picture perfect for honesty

never uttering a word.

He, the man in my mirror, the disillusioned me

the me who waits for those to judge him, to change him.