The sun glances off puddles—

20250818

The sun glances off puddles—

a brief exchange between sky and ground.

The floor glitters.

People walk through it,

as if light were a corridor.

The wind grazes their cheeks—

a reminder that the world touches us

even when we don't ask it to.

Their clothes flicker past:

dots, dashes—

a visual Morse,

each step a signal

lost in transit.

A woman looks at me.

Her smile is not quite hers.

"9 years of the most popular insurance,”

she says,

as if that were a love letter.

I meet her gaze,

coldly.

She leaves.

A man's hair stands—

like the spine of a book

half-read.

Black and white,

or maybe soft,

like the idea of softness.

But not like grass.

Grass is never truly fluffy.

His glasses are thick,

as if they carry the weight

of everything he's ever read.

What stories has he consumed?

Endings that never arrived?

Letters never sent?

Magazines that dress strangers

in borrowed dreams?

The bus arrives.

I say goodbye,

but only inside.