I watch Her in Her bedroom every morning. She sits in front of Her large white vanity, combing Her sunlit golden locks. Then, She admires Herself in the mirror—and I admire Her, too, from within the cold pane separating us.
I watch Her once She draws back her curtains, just after She wakes. Sometimes She sings, and after a while I notice I’m singing, too. Who had started singing first? Was it She or I? I cannot remember. I do not care to remember.
We sing together in the mornings.
Then, She leaves, and I fade away.
“We’ll meet again.”
your story looped me in to re-read several times. i’m generally not one to comment, so forgive me in my lateness. there’s a feeling of melancholy; I take the writer to be a reflection of the past, watching Her rising each day to move on and leave the past behind, but it’s always there. proud of Her for getting on with living, the reflection/past that won’t go away, will always be there, but not in haunting, menacing way…unless of course She chooses to make it so.
anyway, I like it. 🙂