Refraction

The window holds its clear lie. Light bends at the boundary, splits itself— the tree outside older than it appears, the sky a shade too blue to trust.

We believe what passes through without asking what the glass took, what scattered in the crossing over. Every surface is a theft.

Your face turned slightly left was someone else's face. I held it like that for a moment— the angle where you're a stranger. Then the light moved and you came back.

But where did you go? The glass remembers. It collects the versions of you that didn't make it through, holds them in its patient, infinite refraction.