In the Threshold

The room still holds its sleep— dust floating in amber light, your breath a measured metronome.

Between the dream-dark and the day, your eyes rehearse a world not quite remembered, not yet seen.

The coffee cup sits waiting, steam rising like small ghosts, each wisp a promise you're not sure you made.

Outside, the city hums its constant song, indifferent to your slowness, your need to root yourself again in the grammar of morning.

But here, in this soft place, you are both the question and the space where answers are still learning to breathe.