The Threshold

Between the dark and what remains, your hand still warm on the pillow—the world assembles itself one remembered color at a time.

Blue first, then the window's edge, the neighbor's maple spilling copper light. Your name tastes like a word you once knew in another language.

The morning is patient. It waits for you to choose: the weight of another hour beneath covers, or the cold shock of the day pressing against your skin like something that wants to be felt.