Between the Black and Gold

Between the black and gold your name surfaces like a breath— not quite memory, not yet dream.

The window holds its geometry of dawn, each shadow knows exactly where to fall. You are not here. You are everywhere in the small distances: coffee cooling, birds learning their afternoon songs.

Light finds the fault lines where sleep still clings, where morning has not yet decided what color to wear.

This is the hour of almost-knowing, when the world holds its breath and you hold yours, suspended between the person you were and the one climbing into day.