Refraction

The prism holds no light of its own, only the patience to bend what passes through— each color bleeding into the next like watercolors on wet paper, a spectrum born from transparency.

We are like this, you and I, vessels for something larger than ourselves, breaking the straight path of what arrives, sending it scattered and true in directions we cannot predict.

The light doesn't remember the prism after it has fractured and moved on, but the prism remembers every wavelength, carries the weight of colors in its clear, patient body.