The Threshold Between

The day dissolves like watercolor, edges bleeding into the waiting dark— a breath suspended between

what was and what will be. The streetlights flicker, uncertain, as if they've forgotten their purpose.

Sky turns molten, then ash, then something without a name, a color that only exists in this hour.

I stand in the doorway of disappearing light, aware that I am both witness and witnessed, the watcher and the watched,

belonging to neither world completely— caught in the slow amber fade, where time moves sideways through the trees.

This is the quiet where voices learn to echo, where the ordinary becomes strange, where we are most ourselves in dimming.