Silvering

The bulb is dying, ticking like a clock

above the sink where I’ve come to shave.

I’m trying to find the man I was

before the text, before I tried to behave.

A jagged crack runs through the lower pane,

cutting my jaw into a strange, sharp ledge.

I look like a puzzle that’s missing a piece,

or a ghost standing right on the edge.

I wonder if she’ll see the seam in my face,

or the way the glass peels at the back.

It’s hard to be whole in a flickering room

when the image is starting to crack.