Threshold

Morning light breaks on the threshold— not entering, not leaving, just the thin place where one thing becomes another.

A cup grows cold on the counter. The coffee's bitter now, but I drink it anyway, tasting time in the cup's curve.

We speak in shorter sentences. Not anger, just efficiency— the way a river stops meandering when it knows where it's going.

The house remembers what we were, holds the shape of our laughter in its corners, but we are already translating ourselves into something less fragile, less prone to breaking.