What Glass Knows

A pane between you and the sky— so clear the air might not exist, yet everything stays where it is, your breath fogging the invisible boundary, heat meeting cold in a whisper. Glass remembers each fingerprint, each time you pressed your palm against it, wanting to pass through into elsewhere. The clarity is a kind of cruelty: you can see everything you cannot touch. Throw a stone and it fractures into a thousand smaller truths, each shard still reflecting the light that broke it, still sharp with the sharpness of transparency. A bottle holds water and becomes not a prison but a shape, the glass its own kind of thirst, pressing back against what fills it— rigid softness, rigid silence.