Threshold Light

The dream releases its grip slowly, fingers uncurling from your wrists like vines in fast-motion reverse.

Outside, the world negotiates itself— neither dark nor day, but both suspended in a throat of violet before the swallow.

You lie still, caught between the weight of pillows and weightlessness, between the self you were and will become.

Light seeps through the window's edges, patient and inevitable, erasing the maps you drew in sleep.

By the time you remember your name, the dream is already a rumor you can no longer quite believe.