Frost Before Dawn

The grass bends under its own jewels, each blade sheathed in crystal that catches nothing, not yet—the sun is still hours away. The world at three a.m. is brittle and exact, all its soft edges hardened, its lies frozen solid. What blooms in summer dies here, perfected. I walk through the garden like it's made of glass, each step a small betrayal, a crack I can't undo, and behind me, I leave nothing but footprints. By sunrise, this will be gone. The warmth will come and erase everything— the evidence, the record, the proof I was ever here.