The Man Behind the Glass

The Man Behind the Glass

At half past three, when night is still,
He stands before the sink,
The faucet groans, the mirror fogs—
He doesn’t stop to think.

He wipes the glass with shaking hand,
But something isn’t right—
His mirrored self just lags a beat,
Too slow to match the night.

Its smile is off, its eyes too wide,
Its face a touch too thin,
And when he leans to brush his teeth,
It doesn’t lean with him.

He blinks. It grins. He steps away,
Its hand pressed on the pane,
A silent thud from mirror's depth,
A whisper in his brain:

“I’ve waited long, I’ve watched you well,
I know your every scar.
Let me in, or let me out—
We’re not so far apart.”

He backs away. It taps the glass,
A crack begins to spread.
A spiderweb of silver lines,
Around that hungry head.

He runs—but every light turns off,
The door won’t let him flee.
And in the dark, that voice returns—
“You’ve lived enough. Now me.”

A final crash, the mirror breaks,
No glass upon the floor…
But in the room, a single man—
And one less than before.

His smile is off, his eyes too wide,
His face a touch too thin.
He’s brushing teeth at half past three…