The Edge of Waking

The room assembles itself in reverse— shadows peeling back like old wallpaper, colors bleeding back into objects that moments ago were merely shapes.

My hand becomes my hand again, fingers that know the weight of the world, though for one more breath it could have stayed weightless.

Suspended in that glorious suspension where thoughts move like fingers through water and yesterday hasn't yet caught up with the person I'm becoming.

The light insists. Harsh. But look—there's gold in the corner, the way dust learns to dance, how the ordinary world keeps its small miracles.