The Weight of Glass

The city breathes in angles of light, reflections multiplied across the glass faces of morning. I walk through my own transparency, watching clouds move through my chest.

How strange, this weight of clarity— to be seen and unseen at once, a building that remembers every sky it has ever held. The sun doesn't ask permission to fill such hollow spaces.

There is a silence in these towers, a depth like water, like time pressing its palms against the panes. Each crack is a small confession, a place where the light escapes.

I touch the cool surface and feel nothing back, except the temperature of distance, the mathematics of letting go. We build walls that show everything, hide nothing, hold everything.