The Blue Hour

Before the light finds your eyes, a blue hour holds you— neither dream nor world, you float in the hinge of becoming.

Your thoughts arrive like birds at dawn, tentative, testing the air, each one a small percussion of memory returning.

The sheets cool where you've left them, the room slowly gathering color— ochre, then amber, then gold— as if remembering how to be seen.

You are both the sleeper and the wake, the dissolving voice and the one who listens, caught in that sweet suspension before the day claims you whole.