Same Look, but Not the One I Want
I don't own Harry Potter. This is sort of a poem I would guess, you could call it that. This just what I think George was like after Fred's death during the war.
Here I was, sitting in my bedroom in the flat above the joke shop we opened up a few years ago looking into the large oval shaped mirror hanging on the wall.
A familiar face framed with the same ginger hair, and the brown eyes, and galaxy of freckles stared back at me with the same expression I wore. A deep melancholic look that would make you think he would burst out in tears.
He was just like me his nostrils flared slightly when he breathed, His hair was thicker on the right side, he had the same birthmark that looked like poodle on his back, he wasn't proud of that birthmark like I was, You could say we we're the same person; but we weren't.
He was dead and gone. I was still breathing.
He was in heaven with everyone else. I was on earth with the survivors of the war.
I couldn't see him anymore. But he was able to see from above.
I got up and walked to the mirror, and smashed it with my bare fist. I didn't care that shards of glass entered my hand making blood flow slowly from the puncture wounds as it rested by my side.
What was the point of seeing who you want, but it's not them?