I find your glasses
in a winter coat—
two lenses
that outlived
the organs they served.
I put them on, greedy.
I want the world
misaligned the way you left it.
The hallway swims.
Not distance—
time losing its edges.
What I’m doing is simple:
trying to inhabit
the angle
your eyes left behind
with the last quiet surge
before they went dark.
The coat smells
like mothballs
and recordkeeping.
I return the glasses
to the dark pocket
like a witness
told
thank you—
and dismissed.
