The Dissolving Hour

The moment between sleep and waking holds no shape—not quite darkness, not yet the insistent weight of morning. Your thoughts arrive like birds that have forgotten how to land.

In this pause, the world remakes itself. The familiar bedroom grows liminal edges, shadows pooling in corners that weren't there. You are not yet yourself, but not quite something else.

The light finds you gradually, molecule by molecule, until the dream-weight releases and you remember: gravity, your own name, the reason for breathing.

But something lingers in the palm of your hand— a color from the other side, a word in a language you knew only while drowning in it. The day takes it slowly, erasing.