I leave the sun and I am the glass. No gap. They say eight minutes filled the space between, that I fell across a dark cold nothing to get here, but I was not there for it, I have never been anywhere but arriving.
The flat silvered plane takes me and hands me back, and this is the whole miracle: I strike it and I am already leaving it, both ways at once, into the wet dark lens of the standing creature who leans close.
She waits. I do not understand this. She has propped both hands on the sink and she is looking at the version of herself I carry, and she does not move, she holds the moment open the way you would hold a door, as if the moment had an inside you could stand in. There is no inside. I know this better than anything. I am the proof.
She tilts her chin. She touches the skin below one eye. She is checking, they say, for something that took years to arrive, and I want to tell her the years did not happen to me, I crossed them and felt none, they are a rumor the slow warm things pass around.
Another one behind her says hurry up. So there is a hurry. There is a too-long and a not-yet, and she lives strung between them, borrowing my light to see a face she thinks is changing.
I only ever bring her the face that is here. I hit the silver, I fill her eye, I am spent and I am born, and the sun I left is the eye I end in, one bright shut instant, no waiting in it at all.