I rarely look—

not because I forget,

but perhaps

because I remember

too much.

Maybe I’m tired

of this same face,

or maybe
 I’ve buried
myself
 too deep.

But today,

I stood there—

still.
Noticing:

grey threads

woven into black,

eyes that drift,

yet seem

to listen.
Lips —

quiet,

waiting.

Then it asked:

Where were you
 all this time?
I listened.

I searched for an answer.

I wasn’t away,

I said.
You dug deep—

it whispered.

What did you find?

Nothing to show,

I replied.

Only this knowing:

there are still

so many rooms

within me,

unlit.

Some truths

must ripen

before they shine.