Theorem of Amber

Light bends through old glass, and we become what we remember— not the events themselves, but their shadows pooling in the corners of our hands.

A fingerprint on a window tells its own story: the pressure of a moment, the heat of a face pressed against winter, still burning in the dust we cannot quite wipe clean.

Time is a curator arranging flowers, keeping only what refuses to fade— the bitter taste of persimmon, the exact angle of your head when you learned to say goodbye.

We hoard these amber fragments, build cathedrals from the light they hold, forgetting that what glows was once burning, that preservation is its own kind of fire.