Into the looking glass, my grieving soul did stare.
Wishing, longing, to see you still sitting there.
I sat at your vanity, touching combs
Of silver, mingled with small, delicate
strands of your hair.
Across the vanity top in neat array
Lie little figurines that you would hold
With gentle hands and caress
As you looked into your looking glass.
In the lower, left hand drawer still lay
The bath salts that I brought you
from France during the war.
Grouped in the corner I saw your perfume.
With closed eyes, I still smell your softness
As you enter the room.
In this tufted chair, I sit everyday,
Viewing your treasures and knowing
With mind so still,
That you, my love, never went away.
Whenever I seek you, I know you are there.
This is the reason that into the looking glass I stare.
For if, I seek you in my heart,
The warm rush of your warm love
fills that cold and lonely room.
In reality I do know our years together
Were spent, and your calling did come.
We parted with lips touching each other and our hearts without fear
You closed your eyes...and left me here.
But whenever I need to feel your touch
I go into your room, and into the looking glass, I stare.
J. Allen Wilson © 2003