Pulse on Residue Glass

I remember a morning when the light slid silver along a windowsill, pooling in runnels where last night’s condensation clung. Every mark and fracture in the glass seemed to hold a story older than my hands. I keep thinking about what it means to reach—always from behind something, always through the little resistances of stain, a slip of breath, a line that never quite meets itself again. The glass is never clean. I won’t let it be. It stains the image, smudges the hand, interrupts the light—sometimes the hand breaks entirely, slips behind a flaw, reemerges somewhere impossible. You have to stand almost where I did, half-expecting fog on your own fingers, to see the gesture clearly. Most of the time it dissolves, as gestures do, or glints for a heartbeat and is gone. It hums at the edge of recognition—the moment before you touch, before you’re certain it was ever there at all.