The Threshold

The sun leans toward the edge of itself, pulling gold from the air in long drafts. Nothing is decided yet— the sky is still negotiating with shadows, light pooling in the creases of clouds.

Between the hum of day and the first star's whisper, there exists a room where nothing belongs. The birds have already left their arguments behind. Even the wind has grown curious, hesitant, asking the trees if they remember being green.

I stand in this unbounded space, neither mourning nor celebrating, just breathing the particular stillness that only arrives when the world pauses to check its own reflection.

The world will choose again soon— for darkness or for keeping going. But here, in this slender geometry of time, all colors are still possible. Even the ones that have no name yet.