Light Through Worn Glass

Light Through Worn Glass

The afternoon breaks into wavelets across the window's ancient face— each bubble, each thin vein of age bends the world into something softer, kinder than the direct sun demands.

A coffee cup halves the street: half real, half bent. The tree in the corner reaches in two directions at once, patient, as if it remembers every angle it's ever held.

I watch the dust motes swim through the warped amber, small stars in a smaller cosmos, indifferent to their beautiful distortion. Everything here is becoming something else.

This is how time looks when you stop fighting it— not like loss, but translation. The old glass doesn't mourn the light it changes.