Blurred glass

The window glass, it carries grit,

from weeks of rain and exhaust. My face,

a tired smudge, reflected in it,

a quiet ghost, no form, no trace.

The city blurs, a passing smear,

a second skin of grime and light.

I watch the street, but I am here,

inside this moving, hollow night.

My breath, a fog, then gone too soon,

just lines of static, slow and gray.

Another block, beneath the moon

or sun, just another day.