I leave the sun and I am the glass of it, the tall lit box in the hallway, all at once. They say I crossed the dark to get here. I was not there for the dark. I was born and I am already the shine on row C, the crinkle of a wrapper behind the pane, the green digit glowing its price.
There is a human in front of me and the human is not moving.
I do not understand it. I have touched the whole face of this box, the coin slot, the fingerprint smudge on the number pad, the little spiral coils holding their bright cargo, and I have done all of it in no time, in the one instant I have, which is the only kind there is.
But the human stands. It looks at the digit. It looks at a smaller lit box in its hand. It looks back at me. It is doing the thing they whisper about, the thing I cannot picture: it is waiting.
I light the bag as it begins to fall. I am the flash on the spiral turning, I am the shadow the packet throws against the back wall, I am the reflection sliding across the human's eye as the whole thing drops, and this is where I end, at the wet curve of that eye, becoming the seen thing, becoming green digit and glass and falling snack forever.
They say the packet took a second to reach the tray. They say the human sighed. I was not there for the second.
I was only ever there for the seeing, and I am here now, arriving into you, which is also the same moment I left the sun.