The Hour Between

The sky bleeds amber into indigo, a wound that takes its time to close. The trees stand patient as old hands, fingers spread to catch the last light before it drowns in distance.

You know this hour— when the birds forget their names, when shadows lengthen like breath held and the world forgets which way it's turning. Nothing here belongs to day or dark.

The streetlamps flicker on, uncertain, as if they've just remembered they exist. A single car moves through the gathering blue, its taillights two red eyes disappearing into the place where wanting lives.

Stay here a moment longer. The darkness isn't coming fast. Even the night moves slow when watched, and in this space between what was and what will be, we are both new.