The Glass Between

The Glass Between (Part 1) I stand before the glass and see the man who's supposed to be me. And I tell him of the crown I wear, of the castle I have built from air. I paint the scene in gold and red, the hero's life I've lived inside my head. I point to my own jawline, hard, and say, "That is a warrior's guard." I point to my own eyes and claim, "They hold a poet's burning flame." I tell him of the coming light, my endless, undisputed right. But he just looks me in the eye, he never once believes the lie. He doesn't see a king or sage, just a man trapped inside a cage. He shows me what is plain and bare-- a single, worried silver hair. He shows the lines of a long defeat, the bitter mixed in with the sweet. The tremor that I try to hide, the fear I carry deep inside. He shows the man I am right now, the sweat that gathers on my brow. (Part 2) "That's just a shell," I say with heat, "A fragile house on a grand street. You only see the windowpane, the damage from the wind and rain. You cannot see the world inside, the place I have no need to hide." "In there," I say, "the fire is bright, it fills the empty rooms with light. The man inside is strong and true, he's not this broken thing that's you. He finishes the things he starts, he doesn't have a world of parts." But he doesn't speak, he doesn't need to. He just holds up my hands to plead to. They're soft and clean, no dirt, no scars, they've never reached out for the stars. They've never fought, or bled, or built, they only know the shape of guilt. He shows the slouch, the forward bend, the way I break, but never mend. The way I turn my head and flee from who I am, and who I'll be. He shows me my own empty space, the truth I cannot dare to face. (Part 3) And just like that, the thread gives way, the careful words I tell myself all day. The story starts to fall apart, a frantic beating in my heart. The man I am, the one I fake-- which one is real, for goodness sake? I lean in close, my voice is thin, "Who are you, to wear my skin? To stand there, silent, cold, and grim, and steal my life, limb by limb? To wear my face and steal my name, and play this cruel, unending game?" For the first time, his lips move slow. Not my lips, _his_. A voice I know and yet I don't. It's old and deep, like stone that settles from a leap. The sound of truth, after a slide, with nothing left to run or hide. "I have not moved," the voice replied. "I am the anchor, you're the tide. I am the shore, the constant stone, the one you left to drift alone. I am still here. But tell me, where have you gone?" (Part 4) The anger drains, the fire cools. We're just two silent, staring fools. The echo of his question rings, and strips me of my paper wings. The castle made of air is gone, I face the pale and empty dawn. And in the quiet, I can see a little bit of him in me. I see the man, so scared and small, afraid to stand, afraid to fall. But in his eyes, a tiny gleam, the ghost of a forgotten dream. I raise my hand to touch the wall that separates me from it all. He meets my touch, his skin is cold, a story that will not grow old. A border that will never pass, this man who lives behind the glass. We are not one, and not quite two. He is the fact. I am the view. And the whole truth, it isn't mine, or his. It's in the cold, dividing line.