LIMINAL LIGHT

There’s a moment before evening fully arrives —

a thin breath between day and night

where everything feels suspended,

held in a softness too fragile to name.

The world pauses there,

balancing on a quiet edge,

waiting for someone to claim the hush.

I move through that in-between glow,

step by slow step,

feeling the light loosen its hold

like it’s gently letting me go.

Shadows stretch into new shapes,

not threatening,

just curious —

like they’re learning to speak

for the first time.

Colors fade into calm,

a dim wash of silver and early blue,

and something in me settles

in perfect rhythm with the sky.

The noise of the day softens,

slips into the background

like a fading thought

that no longer needs to be solved.

In this liminal light,

I feel less like a person

and more like a breath the world forgot to release —

quiet, tentative,

but still warm enough to exist.

I don’t rush it.

I don’t break the spell.

I let the moment rest on me,

cool and weightless,

reminding me that transition

is its own kind of peace.

The night will come soon,

and I’ll meet it when it arrives —

but for now,

I stand in the thin space

between what was

and what’s about to be,

lit by a light that belongs

to neither.