The Watchers
I glimpse my face held captive in their eyes,
Small mirrors, glass or plastic. They don’t blink,
But sit on
shoebox shelves and wonder where
Their child
has gone. Who is this in her place?
Without her,
legs are still and voices mute.
Fur tipped
ears collect dust and backs crease.
Small hugs are
unaccepted. Yet they smile,
Awaiting her return.
I’ll not be back.
My arms no longer rush to their embrace,
And childlike
love has turned to nostalgia.
I’m not the
girl they knew, though they’ve not changed,
In their
purpose to love and receive life.
So as they
watch and smile, I’ll smile too,
Kiss one’s
small plastic nose,
Pretend it sighs.
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