My Santiago

This Face, my Friend.

In awkward moments, When I lean forward, Peering at my face in the mirror, My face looks back at me.

It is my face, I acknowledge this; I say it under my breath,

- For fear of being overheard - “ You are me / I am you / we are one ”.

My face does not reply; Simply giving me that look that says, “Who are you?” So I study my face, Analyse eyes first, then lips, Then those signs of ageing, - Which I prefer not to see - But here in the mirror, Cannot ignore. I move my face into different poses; Here the steely - eyed, Eastwood, spaghetti - western look; The smile – with - my - eyes – look; The jovial chap, Full of bonhomie, Smiling – with - teeth, lips, eyes, Full – throated - smile – look; And best of all, The smile – with – the - lips, But dead – unsmiling - eyes – look. My face – it seems - is a stranger to me.

In good time however, I come back to the same face,

The same fears, lurking in these eyes, The same awkward twist of the lips, The same unfamiliar sideways profile.

The only face I have, It has grown old with me.

This face, my friend.