The Threshold

The moment before waking— a kingdom made of half-light, where the body still remembers dreaming and the mind hasn't yet swallowed the world whole.

In this narrow corridor between, nothing is fixed. A sound becomes a voice becomes the familiar shape of morning sliding through the crack in night.

The bed is an island adrift in the gentle current of return— eyes still closed but seeing the color of becoming, the texture of surfaces about to matter again.

We drift there as long as we can, suspended in the amber pause, knowing the day is already tapping at the door, but not yet ready to let it in.