Refraction

Light breaks open against the glass— a thousand golden threads spilling through the fissure where surface meets depth.

The water holds its breath, refracting every wave into something the sun never intended. We are all bent light, bent and believing it beautiful.

Below, the shadow knows what the eye cannot: every curve is a lie, every angle a small forgetting of where the light came from.

Still, we lean toward the glass, watching our selves split and multiply, never knowing which direction the true light travels, only that it must.