Threshold of Glass

Glass holds what cannot be said— the reflection of trees before dusk, your hand on the other side of the window, and mine here, the pane between us exact as distance.

We are learning the grammar of absence, how silence has its own syntax, how distance compounds like interest.

The city breathes differently at this hour. Lights blur into each other's forgetting. What we cannot reach we memorize instead— the slope of a shoulder, the particular way you stand.

Behind glass, we are safe from the collision of wanting.