The window was a map of fingerprints

The window was a map of fingerprints,

smears thick as old stories left untold.

I wiped, but the dirt clung like stubborn ink,

drawing ghosts in the dust.

Sun sliced through the glass,

a crooked blade of gold,

bent and scattered by sticky residue,

fractured beams that splintered the kitchen floor.

It wasn’t clean, this light—

its sharp edges cracked,

a fractured glow limping through the kitchen,

specks of dirt catching every shard

like tiny, stubborn stars.

So I left it that way—

the dirt made the light uneven,

a fractured honesty

that didn’t pretend to be pure.