the eulogy of mirrors

you spend your days
in black-clad ritual,
a silent mourner at the graveside
of who you were—
yesterday,
last week,
a decade ago.

each breath you take
buries a former self—
the dreamer who swore they'd never settle,
the lover who thought they’d stay,
the child who never saw the edge of the world
and believed everything would last.

the procession is endless,
a line of caskets stretching
beyond the horizon.
each holds a version of you
that you swore would never die.

they fade without asking,
without permission,
leaving only echoes in your skin,
their fingerprints scattered
like broken constellations.

you are the priest and the mourner,
the architect and the rubble.
you are never still—
only shedding and becoming,
carrying the weight
of all the lives you’ve lived.

but maybe the funeral itself
is the gift—
the reminder that you were someone once,
and someone else now.
you only move forward
because the past has been laid to rest.

so you light a candle
for each lost self,
and as the flame flickers out,
you know—
you will never meet them again.