Through Refracted Hours

Light bends where water breaks it, a thousand fractured suns drowning in the shallow end of memory.

Your face ripples across the surface— I reach down, fingers scattered into light, grasping only the cold fact of distance.

Time moves like this: slow silver, then all at once, the current taking what the mirror had borrowed, leaving only the sound of what we almost held.

In the deep water, there are no reflections, only the pressure of the dark knowing the shape of our bodies better than we do.