FALSE DAWN

Morning tried to rise,

but the light felt borrowed —

thin, uncertain,

like the sky was pretending

to know what it was doing.

A false dawn,

quiet and unsteady,

almost bright

but not enough to believe in.

I watched the world stretch

under that hesitant glow,

shadows long,

colors washed pale

as if the day was made of smoke.

Part of me wanted to step into it,

to trust the promise of warmth —

but something in the air whispered

not yet.

Hope can be a fragile thing,

a flicker that arrives too early

or too late.

And sometimes the sun rises

only to fade back into gray,

leaving you holding a moment

that wasn’t ready to exist.

I breathe through it,

feel the cool morning press

against my skin,

and let myself stay still.

No forcing brightness,

no pretending strength

I don’t have.

Just standing quietly

in the almost-light,

letting the world try again.

False dawns aren’t failures —

they’re rehearsals,

soft attempts at beginning.

And maybe that’s all I am too,

some mornings:

a faint glow learning

how to rise for real.

So I wait,

patient with my own sky,

knowing the true light

will come in its own time.

Until then,

I stand in the pale shimmer

between night and day,

half-lit, half-lost,

but still here.