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There is a certain time of day
I call the in-between.
The sun is still there,
and yet
it has already begun
to descend.
I love this hour
because nothing feels final.
Not day.
Not evening.
The light shifts.
The day exhales.
For a moment,
I am not reaching for what comes next.
It feels like crossing time zones midair,
where two realities
exist at once.
I have lived here before.
Between diagnosis and acceptance.
Between goodbye and silence.
Between the woman I was
and the one I had to become.
This hour knows that terrain.
It does not rush the sun.
It does not cling to it either.
Both things are true.
The sky changing.
The light still there.
Each evening
a doorway appears
in plain sight.
And I step through
without knowing
who I will be
when the light shifts again.