The Threshold

The city holds its breath— streetlights dimming to memory, the sky a watercolor not yet dry.

One star persists, stubborn as prayer, refusing to surrender to the coming light. It has outlasted the night.

Below, a lone jogger rounds the corner, their footsteps the only conversation with pavement that remembers warmth.

The star blinks. Or maybe my eyes do. Either way, the world is turning, and I am turning with it.