Threshold

The sky splits open like a wound that doesn't bleed—only spills a pale amber that tastes like salt. Birds haven't decided if they're awake.

The world holds its breath between what was and what comes next, a door that's neither locked nor open, hinges breathing in the dark.

Your shadow falls the wrong direction, stretched thin toward the coming light, a thing you haven't learned to claim in the hours before the world needs names.

The grass remembers being water. The water remembers being silence. Everything gleams with forgetting.