Blurred Edges

Washing the plastic lid,

that old one,

from the takeaway container

we kept too long.

It's milky now,

scratched and scored

from too many forks,

too many scrubs.

Held it to the light,

the overhead bulb

just a hazy halo,

a soft smear.

You can see through it,

almost.

But nothing's clear.

Just the outline,

the ghost of what's behind,

distorted,

a half-truth held

between my fingers.