Dawn Threshold

Between the dark and the arriving light, you hover—neither here nor there, a ghost still wearing yesterday's clothes. The dream dissolves like sugar in water, its shapes refusing to hold.

Your hand reaches across the bed for something already gone, fingers closing on the cool sheet, on the particular silence of a world not yet awake.

Outside, the birds have not decided whether to sing. The trees exhale their slow green breath. You are still suspended in that blue hour when everything is possible.

Then the sun finds the edge of the window, and you are pulled back— back into bone, into skin, into the weight of being just one person in one moment.