Quiet Before Dawn

The world hasn’t put its armor on yet.

Streetlights yawn outside the window,

and the radiator clicks like it’s thinking of waking up.

You’re still half asleep on my shoulder,

breathing in that slow, honest way

that people forget once they’ve checked their phones.

Your hair smells like the cheap lavender shampoo

We swore we’d replace months ago.

My arm is numb but I don’t move it.

There is a text I should answer,

an email waiting to ruin the day,

dishes in the sink that aren’t going to apologize.

But here, in this small blue pocket of morning,

Time loosens its tie a little.

A bird tries out the first wrong note of the day

on the power line across the street.

Somewhere, a garbage truck sighs,

doing its quiet holy work.

I trace circles on your wrist,

tiny planets that only exist until you wake.

I want to tell you I’m scared most of the time,

that I don’t know how to hold good things

without checking the expiration date.

Instead, I just whisper, “you’re safe,”

and hope the echo gets the message back to me.