Salt Light

Salt light catches the edge of morning— a glass of water forgotten on the sill, and in its curve, the entire room inverted.

We learn early that nothing stays. The hands that held us become hands we cannot find, sentences half-spoken dissolve into the grammar of time, each word a small goodbye we don't recognize.

But here: this moment where dust moves like intention, where light breaks itself into visible pieces— here the forgetting becomes a kind of grace, the way a river carries what it cannot hold, becomes more beautiful for what it lets go.

We are the water and the sill both, transparent and still, waiting for the next light to remake us.