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Morning arrives without ceremony.
Light slips in through rain-blurred glass,
hesitant, as if the day itself is undecided.
The room still holds the night’s chill,
so I cradle the cup and let its warmth
work its way inward, slow and patient.

Outside, the world softens—
trees loosen into color and breath,
rain stitching the edges together.
A winter bird begins somewhere unseen,
its song thin but insistent,
whispering morning into the quiet.
Eight a.m.

Whatever lived between hello and goodbye,
I don’t chase it.
I leave it on the other side of the glass—
intact, unmoving,
a version of us that no longer asks to be believed.

I stay still.
Steam lifts.
The room listens.

A half-smile gathers when your words return,
soft as rain against the pane.
If I sit just right—
tucked into the corner,
letting the silence settle—
I can hear something old stirring,
amused, familiar,
stretching its limbs beneath the calm.

Not loud.
Not broken.
Just awake again.