Glass Morning

The light arrives in fragments, bent through panes of winter, a thousand fractured suns bleeding amber across floorboards.

Each ray carries its own silence— no sound in brightness, only the weight of dust suspended, dancing without knowing.

You can hold a moment here, cupped between your hands like water, feel it slip through fingers the moment you acknowledge it exists.

The world continues its turning beyond this window. We stay, caught in the amber, luminous, until even we forget we're falling.