Before the Light

The darkness holds its breath, a pause between the last star's dimming and the first warmth at the horizon— that impossible space where nothing moves and everything waits.

In my palm, the cold dew of grass, small stones remembering yesterday's heat, the ancient patience of roots drinking slowly from the soil's dark cathedral.

You are there too, at the edge of this moment, before names, before questions, just the sound of your breathing and the world remembering how to open.

The birds have not yet begun their daily argument with light. The air is still held in its own hands, trembling like a held note, like a secret about to be told.