Who Is That

The storefront window caught me

at the wrong angle,

and for a second

I didn't know who I was looking at.

The face was mine—

the mouth slightly open like I'd been

about to say something,

the eyes tired in a way

I don't remember becoming,

the jaw a little softer,

the skin a little less sure

of what it's supposed to hold.

I recognized myself after,

of course.

The brain catches up.

The logic kicks in.

But there was that moment,

that thin space

where I was a stranger

looking back at me.

And I realized:

this is what other people see.

This tired, slack-mouthed version.

This is the face I'm sending

into the world

every single day,

and I have no idea

what it's saying,

what it's giving away.

I moved.

The window lost the angle.

The stranger disappeared.

But I'm still here,

and I still don't know

what I look like

when I'm not looking.