Refraction

Light bends at the glass edge, a prism of hours pooling in the corner where dust dances.

I watch the shadow of my hand stretched longer than it should be, fingers reaching across the room like dark water spreading.

The world cracks into smaller worlds— each raindrop a tiny universe, each window a threshold between what is and what appears.

Nothing stays still. Even the still things are moving, just too slowly for us to see, the way mountains walk across centuries, the way light always, always finds the one small opening.