You there.

You.

You.

No, not you. You…the one in the looking glass. You, there, little woman. Take a good look at yourself. You are divided and pieced into something different than you were a year ago, but you still exist somewhere beneath that image in the mirror, beneath skin and bone structure, flucuations in weight caused by stress or comfort eating, hair in a refined french twist or left to drift, abandoned, about your shoulders. You are still you.

God’s gonna give you something, believe it. Some kind of sign beyond a face awash in salt water, the sudden flood of tears that confronts you during your morning commute when you lose focus on the road and allow yourself to drift, where you imagine your phantom spectre waiting for you at your office doors. The phantom stands, cigarette dangling from a frown, leaning against the wall, arms crossed (rebel-style), and a helmut at his feet. You’ll get a sign beyond the punch in the gut you get every time you remember, bone-level, that the person you loved was not a person, never, not at all.

Nobody will ever be like the phantom spectre, it’s true. But take solace in knowing that, too, nobody will ever be like

You.

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