Eyes Behind the Glass

On the subway, rain spat at the window

and smeared the city into blobs of gray—

I caught a face, half-shadow, half-strain,

blurring behind the wet glass.

He shifted, paper folding slow

like folding me into the corner of his view.

His eyes pinned me beneath flickering lights—

a watchful weight that stretched and held.

The glare of the carriage bulbs

caught the curls of his newspaper like thin bones,

and I felt each page press closer,

a thin wall between his gaze and my breath.

Outside, the street went on, indifferent,

but inside I was a trapped thing

with eyes like a cage locking tighter

in the damp, in the buzz, in the long, lingering look.