Two Hands

Every time I touch the mirror see myself in every morning a tear slips way out the corner of my eyes. It's not the same as it used to be. I get flashbacks of when our hands would touch the glass I'd have to speak to you through and see you through. It was tougher than I thought I'd be. The thought that went through my mind were always the worse especially because I knew I had to leave you and not take you with me. I smiled but inside I was broken and wanted to die myself. When I left that steel seat on the other side of the glass that you weren't on. I haven't been able to forget the last day I touched your hand through the glass. Those moments are no more.



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