In the early hours of morning,
when the world is barely awake
and the sky is holding its breath,
I find a quiet I can’t touch
at any other time of day.
The air feels softer then—
like it knows my name,
like it recognizes the weight
I carried through the night.
Streetlights hum their sleepy glow,
and shadows stretch long and gentle,
not to scare me,
but to remind me I’m not alone.
My thoughts move slower,
unrushed, unjudged,
wandering the dim edges of dawn
where everything feels honest.
In the early hours of morning,
I’m not trying to be anything—
not brave, not healed,
not whole.
I’m just a heartbeat
listening to the world exhale,
waiting for the sun
to rise over the parts of me
I’m still learning to love.
Through the Fog 