The Threshold of Hours

Morning arrives as a question mark— light bleeding through the gap between curtains, birds forgetting their names in new branches.

My hand still holds the shape of a dream, fingers curled around something already dissolving, the taste of sleep still bitter on my tongue.

Outside, the city wakes in fragments: a car door, a key turning, someone's small urgency. But here, in this blue hour, I am still becoming.

Still learning how to be present in a body that remembers the night, in walls that hold only my breath.