What Glass Cannot Hold

Glass holds only light, not the hands that held it— each reflection a small goodbye.

In the kitchen, sunlight breaks itself against the window. I watch the pieces rearrange as clouds move through.

Memory is like this too: transparent, fragile, the image always slightly warped by the surface it clings to.

When I touch the glass, my warmth blurs what I see. Outside, the garden continues without my clarity.