The Hour Before Waking

The house holds its breath in that blue hour, when night hasn't fully released its grip and day waits in the wings, patient as stones.

A thin light moves through the curtains— not yet morning, already a promise, the way a word forms on the tongue before it splits the air into meaning.

My mind arrives in pieces: first the weight of the pillow, then the rhythm of air in my lungs, then slowly, slowly, the grammar of the world assembling itself again.

There is a sweetness here, in not-quite-being, in the warm dark, before the weight of hours settles on my shoulders and the day begins its quiet demolition.