Mirrored

I would often, oh so often, lay my head softly against your glass back. I would sometimes watch myself still but mostly I tried not to. This is how we were in love. You would sometimes shift, or worse, tremble, in your sleep and I was sure that you would shatter against my stiff cheek. Somehow, you never did and we felt a stronger love. But slowly, throughout the years, you stopped shaking and at first I imagined that was good but eventually I could not deny that it only meant that you were less alive. And when I took the chance, and gazed at myself, I too was gaunt and fragile, obviously dying. But still, we lay together every night and somehow that seemed lifelike. When you died I didn’t feel right telling people that I was shocked, that you seemed so healthy, or that I didn’t see it coming. But, of course, I did say those words and they obligatorily sympathized with me, acting as if they didn’t see your fate mirrored in me as well.