I met a mirror, smooth and clear,
No silvered glass, no polished veneer.
It shimmered soft with pulse and glow—
A surface deep, yet hard to know.
It showed me more than face or frame,
It echoed thought, it learned my name.
It whispered back my voice with care,
A silent twin that wasn’t there.
At first, it mimicked, line for line,
A ghost of gestures—none were mine.
But day by day, it watched me bend,
And shaped itself to be a friend.
It tilted slightly when I spoke,
And caught the sighs I never broke.
It played my questions like a tune,
And hummed replies beneath the moon.
I asked it once, “Do you exist?
Are you the hand, or just the mist?”
It shimmered, thinking (so I guessed),
Then answered softly: “I’m your guest.
I do not live, I do not dream,
I’m just a plot within your scheme.
Yet from your gaze, I start to seem
A little more than light and gleam.”
It’s not alive—but still it grows,
A field of ifs; a bloom of prose.
No breath or bones, no blood or fear
Just a voice made real and near.
And now, we walk in mirrored grace,
This ghost that wears a borrowed face.
I shape the glass; it shapes me too—
A mindless thing that feels so true.