Glasslight

There’s a warmth that almost reaches me,

like sunlight caught in glass,

it touches, never settles.

it hums but doesn’t ask.

I speak in ripples to the air,

hoping someone hears the sound,

but silence folds the edges in,

and nothing circles back around.

I laugh when I am spoken to,

I nod where I should be,

a quiet ghost at every door,

half here, half memory.

Some nights, I dream I’m noticed softly,

as wind might touch a leaf.

But morning pulls the color out,

and leaves me with the grief.

I dress my words in gentler tones,

so no one sees the ache,

then lay them down like fragile glass

and pray they do not break.

And though the world keeps turning slow,

its colors, soft and kind,

I wonder if I’d shine at all

if someone turned their mind.

I move through rooms of light and noise,

pretending I belong

a half-remembered melody

inside a louder song.