Threshold Light

The dark dissolves like watercolor— edges first, then the whole architecture of sleep crumbles into amber. Your eyelids thin. A bird somewhere has already forgotten its dream.

The window holds the sky like breath, neither day nor night but the soft space between, where thoughts drift upstream, catching on nothing. This is when the heart speaks to itself.

Light spills through the blinds in parallel truths, each stripe a reminder: you have never been lost, only standing still while the world turned. The sheets smell of hours you won't remember.

And then—the world clicks into focus, and you are simply here: a body learning again what it means to be awake, to be real, to be small beneath such sky.