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.