Threshold Light

Morning catches the edge of window glass— neither inside nor out, a suspended breath before the world remembers itself.

I've learned to live in margins, in the soft spaces between what was said and what remained, the way dust moves through light without landing.

Time is just another room we wander through, certain we'll recognize it when we return, surprised always to find the furniture rearranged.

Water forgets its shape the moment it takes one, teaches me something about surrender I'm still too afraid to practice.

The body keeps its own calendar— scars bloom like gardens, hands remember what the mind has learned to forget.