Light Fractured, Home-Bound

The sun slouched behind streaked glass—

not clear, not honest.

Colors dripped down, pooling in the grime,

like paint left out too long,

a slow, clumsy spill.

I pressed my palm against the pane,

fingers tracing fingerprints

I forgot were there,

and the world outside blurred, distant,

like a photograph I didn’t want to remember.

Light didn’t sharpen edges here,

just softened, swallowed shapes

into dull gold and dust.

The day leaking through that glass

was the same sky,

but held by a cage of yesterday’s rain

and restless hands.

Maybe that’s how memory works—

not bright, but filtered,

dirty with everything it’s picked up along the way.