the person in the glass

He trudged up the eternity of steps and let his bag slip from his shoulder as he passed the doorway.

The coldness of the wood felt good beneath his aching feet as he stood a moment in the darkness.

Flicking on the lights, he walked in step with his thudding heartbeat toward the washroom,

carefully picking his way over the messy floor.

The room listened as his heartbeat slowed to a steady beat,

the slow thudding echoed off the walls like the distant beating of war drums.

The lights burned to life, illuminating the dark corners in the stuffy bathroom.

He hung his head over the porcelain white basin and splashed cool water onto his tired face,

closing his eyes as he felt the droplets roll off his skin.

As the last drop slipped off his cheek he looked up into the mirror.

Melancholy only stops short in the face of surprise.

He stared long and hard into the eyes which looked back at him. 

It wasn't him.

Well it was, but it wasn't.

It was the perfect reflection like the laws of physics imply,

and yet, he did not recognize the eyes which bore right back into his soul.