The world wakes slowly,
as if unsure
whether to rise or stay quiet.

Light leaks through the edges
of the curtain,
not bold-
just enough
to remind you
that time moves
even when you don't.

The floor is cold,
the air still holds
the hush of dreams
not yet broken
bt voices,
bu motion,
by the day's demands.

Coffee brews in another room,
its scent
the first sentence
in a langu6
you almost forgot overnight.

Early mornings are soft,
not because they are kind,
but because they have not yet
been shaped
by noise,
by expectation,
by anything
but breath and thought.

They ask nothing of you,
only that you notice.