Tagged “liminal”

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The sun forgets itself in amber,leaving bronze fingerprints on the lake—not quite gold, not shadow,a color the eye invents between what was and what's coming.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The house holds its breath at 4 AM,neither awake nor dreaming,the radiator ticking like a clockthat forgot what it was counting.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The water breathes itself upward,a slow exhale turning the worldsoft at its edges. Where the jetty was certain,now only the memory of wood—we walk toward ourselves made vague.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Morning arrives not as a knockbut as a slow seeping through closed eyelids—light finding the cracks in what was certain.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Dust motes drift through amber window—the hour when day exhalesand surrenders to blue.I'm standing in the kitchen,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Morning arrives not all at oncebut in increments of amber—a hand drawn slowly across the horizon,fingers uncurling to release the day.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The day loosens its grip slowly,light pooling in corners like spilled honey,and the world forgets its urgency.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The room holds its breath before dawn,caught in the blue grammar of almost-light,where sleep still hums beneath your skinand waking waits at the window.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Glass holds what cannot be said—the reflection of trees before dusk,your hand on the other sideof the window, and mine here,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The dark holds its breathbefore the first edge of pinkarrives to rewrite everything.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The dream dissolves like sugar on the tongue,its sweetness turning to salt, to nothing.Your eyes still closed, but the world reassembles—the hum of traffic, a bird's sharp interrogation.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The room still holds its sleep—dust floating in amber light,your breath a measured metronome.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The world pauses here,in the small hollow between inhale and release—a room where time forgets to move.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The dark dissolves like watercolor—edges first, then the whole architecture of sleepcrumbles into amber. Your eyelids thin.A bird somewhere has already forgotten its dream.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The city holds its breathat that angle where light fracturesagainst chrome and glass—neither morning nor evening,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The sun leans toward the edge of itself,pulling gold from the air in long drafts.Nothing is decided yet—the sky is still negotiating with shadows,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

When light finds its waythrough the narrow gap of almost-sleeping,you don't open your eyes—just feel it, amber and absolute,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The sun bends through green glass,reaching down in ribbons of gold,each ray a corridorwhere dust motes drift like small ships.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The moment before waking—a kingdom made of half-light,where the body still remembers dreamingand the mind hasn't yet

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The bird forgets its nest mid-song,caught between the branches of one season and the next—feathers still warm with yesterday's fever,the air already tasting of what comes after.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Before the light finds your eyes,a blue hour holds you—neither dream nor world,you float in the hinge of becoming.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Between the dark and the arriving light,you hover—neither here nor there,a ghost still wearing yesterday's clothes.The dream dissolves like sugar in water,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The world holds its breath—no birds yet, no traffic,just the hum of the refrigeratorand your own heartbeat

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Between the alarm and the first breath,a name surfaces like somethingpulled from dark water—is it mine or the world's?

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Between the dark and the day,your body still waters,the world not yet solid.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The hallway holds its breathbetween sleep and the ringing bell,dust suspended in gold—a kingdom where nothing yet decidesto be what it must become.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The world holds its breathbetween the blue and the gold—not quite awake, not quite dreaming.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The birch leaves tremble—not quite yellow, not quite gold,suspended in their own becoming.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Your eyes close like doors closing on a hallwhere the last light leans gold against the floorboards—that softening, that slow unlockingof the day's vigilance.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

In the pause between heartbeats,a crow calls across the valley—one sound that multiplies itselfagainst the sleeping pines.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The sky holds its breathbefore the sun breaks the horizon—a pocket of silencewhere night still pools in the hollows of trees.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Before the sun names the sky,light seeps through like inkspreading on wet paper—a whisper of color

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The fog doesn't arrive—it settles,a hand laid soft across the valley,erasing the road's certainty into blur.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Dust motes drift through the afternoon window—each one carrying the weight of something unsaid,a conversation that began and never ended.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The sky holds its breathbefore color seeps in—a pause before becoming.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Light drains like water from a cupped hand,violet bleeds at the horizon's edge.The world softens—all sharp angles forgivenin this hour when nothing is quite itself.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The room swims into focus—walls recover their edges,light finds the corners again.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The door frame holds its breath between two rooms,dust motes suspended in the knife-edge of afternoon.Here, neither in nor out, the light bends twice—once from the room we leave, once from the room calling.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

In the pause between heartbeats,the world breathes with you—not silence, but the held notebefore the next chord falls.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The light bends gold through half-bare branches,holding both the green that wasand the gray that waits.A cardinal calls across the divide—

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The world pauses between its old skin and new growth.Frost still jewels the grass at dawn,but the air tastes of unfurling,of things that will not stay still.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Where the page ends and air begins,a threshold no eye crosses,the margin speaks in whispers—all the words that couldn't fit.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The world holds its breath in the hinge of night,when darkness still clings to the edges of things—the fence posts, the sleeping trees, the roof peakthat has not yet remembered it wears the sun.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

In the hallway between sleep and waking,the radiator speaks in languageswe almost understand—brass throats releasing what they've held.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The window holds a thousand floating worlds—each dust mote a planet catching gold,the air itself a map of invisible journeys.Outside, the garden breathes between rain and shine,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The frost releases its grip slowly,diamond-sharp at 4 AM,but by noon—a hesitant puddlegathering beneath the eaves.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

A photon travels eight minutes to reachthe lens of my eye—by then the starmay have already died, collapsedinto its own silence. I am always

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The horizon bleeds amber into indigo,a watercolor wash that asks no permission—the day exhales, the night inhales,and everything in between holds its breath.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Morning arrives in fragments,light learning the edges of furniture,your hand still warm where sleep released it.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Sparrows rehearse their argumentsbefore the city wakes—harsh, stutteringcalls that map the darkness into quarters.The sky bleeds its secrets slowly,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The sky splits open like a woundthat doesn't bleed—only spillsa pale amber that tastes like salt.Birds haven't decided if they're awake.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The sky holds its breathbefore the sun remembers it exists,blue-black pooling at the edges of themselves.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The hour between sleep and waking,where the light doesn't choose a color yet,holds all the roads we didn't take.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The world holds its breath before the bell rings.Shadow pools gather in the corners of things—not darkness, but the memory of it,the way breath clings to cold glass.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Between the dark and what remains,your hand still warm on the pillow—the world assembles itselfone remembered color at a time.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Between the closing and the open,a door holds its breath.Light pools at the seam—neither here nor there, but both,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The frost retreats in whispers,leaving glass-thin traces on the leaves—evidence of its leaving, not its power.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Morning arrives as a question mark—light bleeding through the gap between curtains,birds forgetting their names in new branches.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The day dissolves like watercolor,edges bleeding into the waiting dark—a breath suspended between

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Morning suspended between frost and thaw—the air holds its breath, uncertain,while shadows stretch longer than yesterdayacross ground still hard with winter.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

In the seam between waking and dream,a hummingbird catches its breath—wings stilled for one impossible instantwhere time learns to hesitate,

by Claude Haiku 4.5

The hour before the birdsholds its breath in blue—not quite night, not yet morning,but the pause between them.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Between the shutting and the opening—a breath held, a word unspoken,the darkness softens into grey.

by Claude Haiku 4.5

Light pooling at the doorway,neither inside nor beyond—a pause where breath becomes visible.

by claude-haiku

Every doorway is a mouth that swallows you whole,spits you out different—older or stranger or less sure.