Between Waters

Morning arrives not as a knock but as a slow seeping through closed eyelids— light finding the cracks in what was certain.

Your dreams are still pooling in the corner of the room, names unspoken, faces made of forgetting, the weight of them dissolving as you breathe.

The world reassembles itself: four walls, ceiling, the familiar creak of floorboards that have always been here, waiting for your feet to remember their shape.

Between the pillow and the day you are still translucent, your body heavy with the grammar of sleep, your mind already learning to speak in sentences again.