Threshold Light

Dust motes drift through amber window— the hour when day exhales and surrenders to blue. I'm standing in the kitchen, neither hungry nor full, watching light climb backwards up the walls.

The bird outside has stopped its song. Even silence has a texture here, something like velvet, something like rust. I could name this feeling but the word would dissolve before it reached my tongue.

These are the moments that don't belong to anyone— not to morning's urgency, not to night's confession. They're borrowed time, a held breath before the world remembers how to move.