The Hinge of Silence

The world holds its breath between the last star's exhale and the sun's first thought—

a space so thin you could slip a whisper through it.

Here the night moths fold their wings into themselves, origami'd darkness, while somewhere a bird learns the language it's forgotten.

Everything pauses at the hinge of becoming, where what was still wears its shadow and what will be hasn't yet learned to cast one.

Then light spills through like milk, and the moment snaps shut, leaving only the memory of a door we almost understood.