Borrowed Dawn

Borrowed Dawn

I woke before the clocks remembered

how to count—

the dark still warm from sleep,

The birds are not yet convinced of morning.

I opened the blinds a finger’s width

and let tomorrow leak in:

a thin gold ribbon

threading the chipped rim of the sink,

the tired spine of the chair,

the quiet pulse of my wrist.

I have nothing to trade.

But the promise to try again.

So I borrow light the way a hand

borrows steadiness from another—

not stealing, just leaning.

Your name arrives soft, like steam

from a mug I don’t deserve yet.

We don’t say future out loud.

We fold it like a note in a pocket,

walk carefully, listen for a crinkle.

On the window, a smudge of pink

negotiates with the night.

Even doubt looks smaller

when the street’s wet stones

begin to keep their own reflections.

If hope is debt, I’ll pay it in breath.

In the meantime: keys on the hook,

shoes by the door, the kettle rehearsing rain.

Everything ordinary, burnished

by what isn’t here yet—but coming.

When the sun finally signs its name

across the rooftops

I’m already a little brighter,

as if light could lend itself

and trust me to return it—with interest.