The Glass Eye

Walking past the storefront,

dark glass, a sheen of rain,

I caught it.

My own shape, but wrong,

a little too still.

For a second, before my brain clicked

it was me, reflected,

it was someone else, standing

right behind my shoulder,

judging the slump.

Streetlights smeared across the face

that wasn't mine, but was.

A ghost of me, or a ghost of a witness.

And the air just hung there, heavy.