The Hours Before Light

The house holds its breath in the dark— floorboards patient as bones, dust motes suspended in their invisible choreography.

Nothing has moved yet. The coffee hasn't brewed itself, the day hasn't remembered its appointments. I am the only verb in this sentence, and I choose to be still.

There's a frequency here that vanishes as soon as the kettle speaks, as soon as the phone learns it's morning. A color without a name, the taste of air before it's been breathed.

I have learned to love this thinning— the last star reluctant at the window, the world gathering itself like a held breath, not yet ready to become what it must.