The Threshold

In the blue hour before full morning, you're still half-liquid, half-form— thoughts drift like steam through the breaking dark.

Your body remembers the dream's strange weight, how you stood in a garden where fruit hung too heavy, too ripe, where names dissolved on your tongue.

Now the world insists on itself: a siren, birdsong, the neighbor's door. You surface slowly, trading one solitude for another.

For a breath, you're still between— that sacred, slippery threshold where anything could still be true.