The Threshold

The morning stops its breath at the edge of the garden— light hesitates on the wet grass, not yet willing to illuminate what the dark has kept secret.

Your hand hovers above the door, keys suspended in the half-dark, as if turning them would break some fragile agreement between staying and leaving.

The birds are done singing. Even the wind has paused, waiting to see which way you'll turn, what threshold will finally consume the person you were yesterday.

In this hinge of hours, everything is possible: the light could remain golden forever, your hand could turn back, the day could wait.

But light moves. Hands fall. Days insist on their becoming.