Prisms of What Remains

A shaft of dust-bright afternoon fragments against the window frame, each speck a small museum of what passed through this room— conversations, breath, the weight of years.

The light doesn't remember, but I do: how your hand caught that slanted gold, how it burned for just one moment into clarity before the world turned again.

Everything splits into before and after, prisms bending the ordinary into something we almost understand. The same photons scatter through different glass, become different colors.

Time is a room we walk through leaving ourselves behind in shafts of light, each fragment carrying what we were, never quite reaching the wall, never quite disappearing either.