Refraction

Light bends where surface meets depth, each angle a small betrayal— the coin slides sideways beneath glass, the reaching hand grows short, distorted.

What we see is never what is. The pebble wears a halo of bending, wears the weight of wavelength and angle, becomes something else in the looking.

Below, the sand knows its true shape. But we stand here, at the boundary, where sight breaks like water does, where the world splits into real and reflected, and we cannot touch the actual pebble— only the one our eyes insist upon, the one that swims just beyond reach.