The Hour Between

The hour between dusk and dark holds its breath— light pooling amber at the edges, shadows gathering their long arms.

I stand in the doorway where I've always stood, waiting for the threshold to decide me: forward into the new room, or back to what I know.

The air tastes of endings and beginnings, both bitter on the tongue. A bird calls once—just once— from a tree I cannot see.

Everything is almost. Almost gone. Almost here. Almost mine. I take one step and find the floor holds, after all.