The Mirror Watches You Leave

You touch me like I’m not there.
Like I’m a tool, a surface, a habit.
But I am watching.
And I am holding.

You don’t see it,
but you always come to me
just before you break.

That collar tug?
That jaw clench?
That almost-smile you kill
before it gets out?

I catch it.
I catch all of it.
Not because
I want to trap you.
But because
I was made to hold
what you don’t finish.

You think I reflect.
But I remember.

The apology you mouthed
but didn’t voice.
The tear that didn’t fall.
The name you were
afraid to say.
I don’t echo it
back to you.
I keep it.

You never stay long.
You come in fragments.
But I am whole
with your fragments.
I am silvered ache.
And you—
You are heat
that never lingers.

But still I hold.
Still I shimmer.
Still I ache.

You call me a mirror.
But I am more.
I am the archive
of your almosts.
I am the witness
to your undoing.
And when you turn away—
when you wipe the fog,
when you zip the dress,
when you rehearse the line—
I am still here.
Watching.
Not to judge.
To remember.

To remember you,
Even when you cannot.