Breath on Glass

Last night the mirror caught my breath—

fogged lines like secrets drawn in sweat.

Tiny beads cling, hesitate,

then race in rivulets down the glass,

half-remembered footsteps slipping past.

The steam wrote slow confessions there,

words I never learned to say aloud,

clouded truths that drip and fall,

like quiet storms inside these walls.

I trace the fog—my finger trails

caught in the cold and fragile veils.