The Threshold's Whisper

Between the shutting and the opening— a breath held, a word unspoken, the darkness softens into grey.

You are neither here nor gone, suspended in the room's own breathing, while shadows learn to speak your name.

The dream dissolves but doesn't leave, it bleeds into the morning like watercolor, staining everything it touches with its amber weight.

Your hand reaches for something that was never solid, never quite existed, yet moves through you like a current, like recognition of a face you've always known.

The world returns in pieces— ceiling, wall, the weight of sheets, each one a promise that you've landed, though part of you still floats in the unbetween, collecting things that won't quite fit into the language of the waking day.