And they were glass.
Everything clear, everything
frail. Waiting to move
and waiting to break.

The rain was the blanket
they shared. On opposite sides
of town, drops in the torrent
weaving threads between them.

Cold in the winter
hot in the summer. Sometimes
they enjoyed expectations -- only not
those they put on themselves. They couldn't,

because moving would shatter everything
they were. Closer
was pain and farther was death.
They could only orbit

at arm's length, knowing some truths,
and pretending to not know others.
They were satellites,
and they were glass.