The Weight of Blue

The hour before the birds holds its breath in blue— not quite night, not yet morning, but the pause between them.

The world is a question mark still waiting for its answer. Shadows soften at the edges, become water instead of weight.

You can feel it coming, the inevitable gold, but here—suspended in this particular silence— everything is still possible.

The dark releases its grip so slowly, so gently, like a hand opening after holding something precious for too long.

And in this gentle loosening, we are remade: lighter, clearer, ready for whatever burns on the horizon.