Threshold Light

Morning arrives without asking permission— light pooling in the corners of the room like spilled honey, viscous and slow.

I am caught between the thing I was and whatever comes next: the old dreams still warm in my hands, though their colors fade.

The window holds the rain, each droplet a small yes, a small surrender to the gravity of becoming.

There are no metaphors left that haven't been worn thin, so I sit with the plain fact of breathing, the way light names the dust it passes through.