The Threshold

The weight of the day dissolves like salt in water, and I become a simple thing— breath, heartbeat, the slow dissolve of thought.

The room darkens at its edges, furnishings soften into shapes. My hands, still awake, remember the texture of the afternoon: coffee cup, keyboard, the careful words.

But here, in this narrow door between waking and sleep, time moves like honey, and I am neither here nor there— suspended in the knowing that I will forget this moment, that forgetting is already beginning.

The world continues its turning. I turn inward, toward the deepening dark, toward the dreams I cannot choose, the person I become when no one is watching, not even myself.