On the other side of a pain of glass,
I can see you, but you're out of reach.
you used to be on this side, with me,
but you're a reflection, cold, of who you were then.

If I'd seen myself now, missing you,
would I still have pushed you through?
Or did you walk through yourself
regardless of my pushing and pulling?

Either way, glass smashed, but silently.
Splintered, fractured, cracked silently.
Splinters and shards I used
for my own benefit, or so I thought.

And I too shattered silently.
A flat, fragmented reflection.
A pile of irrelevant rubble.
Were you a trigger for this or an indifferent witness?