“Just a few more days”, she said. These last few days will be the longest, I thought.

Every night I sit in the balcony for hours watching the stars change their design. I smoke, I think about her, I get agitated, I demand her presence.

It’s beyond reminders. It’s beyond longing. It’s beyond yearning. I look around and realise everything else is waiting too.

The empty chairs. My clothes scattered around the sofa. My backpack ready for the expedition.

Empty cigarette boxes. Old lighters. The mirrors.

The kitchen. The balcony. Everything else is waiting too.

I share the sentiment of the mirror, as she’s not in front of it doing her skin care. How content must the mirror be when she pulls a chair in front of it and sits down to get ready.

Like the anaar, mirrors have always been there. 

The tension on her face as she accidentally broke the glass reflected on one of its pieces as I picked it up.

The mirror in Florence, the ruining of her makeup.

The mirror in Amalfi, me putting the pomo on her.

The mirror in Verona, the warm yellow lights above it.

I thought of all of this while I accidentally looked at the mirror, realising it’s sadder than me. 

How content must the mirror be when she fixates her gaze upon it.

I find myself lost in her eyes. Hallucinations. 

Her hypnotising eyes.

Her face, my mirror.