aging

 The reflection in the mirror stares back. Where did all the wrinkles come from? Why are there wrinkles in places that shouldn't even have them? Attention shifts momentarily to the hair. Long strands of grey starting to become more and more visible. It's pointless now to pull them out. There's too many.  Dark circles under the eyes, and bags because sleep has been disrupted lately. Almost unrecognizable. This can't be me. Is this really what I look like?  The thought strikes hard and swift. It's no wonder he doesn't love me anymore. Why does anyone think I'll find someone else, when this is the reality?
Because who you are on the inside is what matters! The argument begins. It's easy say that, but when the reality of the mirror is facing you, and you know that he moved on, it feels like a moot point.  People have said that you are extraordinary, but you are the one living it, and it just feels normal to you. 
Turning away from the mirror, the harsh truth too much to wallow in, the argument continues. You have friends that love you. 
Yes, but he doesn't. He was the one I wanted to love me. His opinion was the one that mattered.
Everyone says you'll be better off. That you'll find someone new. 
Looking like the cryptkeeper? The internal self scoffs. I don't even recognize myself anymore. 
Why are you being so superficial? 
Because my love was not enough for him, so what else could it be? That's the only thing that has changed over the years. What is inside is not enough, apparently. So why would I even consider that anyone else would settle for that? 
The other side of the internal argument stops. Tears spring to the surface. It's just grief for what was. A new day is dawning, but it hasn't arrived yet. This grief exists in the moment, and mourns the loss of youth, of a past love, of the dreamer who believed in the power of love.