The Hour Between

The hour between sleep and waking, where the light doesn't choose a color yet, holds all the roads we didn't take.

Your voice arrives in particles, each word dissolving before I can gather them— like trying to hold water in open palms.

The things we plant in silence grow their own roots, pushing through dark soil, reaching for a sun we've already left behind.

I find your name in every threshold: doorways, dusk, the space between heartbeats, where the world rewrites itself so quietly we almost don't notice we've changed.