The skin is drawn thin
over the frail bone
of a skull
almost luminous
dark eyes staring
from deep eye sockets.
I cradle it
in my hands
each morning
as I lift it
from where it lay
some half-recognised
ceremonial act.
I blow a faint mist over
the empty eyes
the sour breath of surprise
in the open mouth
as if it, too, acknowledged
me in the mirror.
Hands cradling it gently, I watch
my hollow eyes staring at me from a misty place.
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