Entangle

Morning is a patient lover.

She peels back the dark inch by inch, never rushing, never demanding. She pulls me closer, coaxing me from sleep with the promise of the pristine. Solitude is my companion, in the stillness where words gather like dew, delicate and waiting to be noticed. I wake with her, wrapped in the quiet, my mind clean, my thoughts sharp.

The ghosts of yesterday have not yet begun knocking.

This is when she whispers to me, sliding between my thoughts, trailing her fingers through the open doors of my mind, leaving ideas in her wake.

"Write," she murmurs. "Before the day takes this from you."

I’ve no choice but to listen.

My coffee steams, spirals curling upward, vanishing in half-formed sentences. The city beyond my window is asleep, its breath slow. Streetlights flicker and fade as morning’s touch spreads over the horizon, streaks of pale gold. Stretching across a sky still smudged with the remnants of night.

She is beside me now, pressing close, urging me forward.

"Now."

The first words come hesitantly, unsure, but she is patient. She waits. She smooths my hesitation, fills my lungs with fresh air, washes away the weight of the things unsaid.

The page is empty, but far from barren. It is unrevealed. The first bird sings. A single note. Then another. And another.

She hums with them. The rhythm of a world unfolding. A last secret before the world wakes.

"Now," she says again. "Before the day steals this from you."

I write.

The words flow, slipping from my fingers before doubt can catch them.

Morning is a patient lover, but she will not wait forever. The sun rises. The sky painted in brushstrokes of lavender and gold. The city wakes, restless. The quiet is fading.

Morning pulls away from me, slowly, gently. "Stay," I whisper, but she only smiles.

The words are on the page, and soon, she will be gone.

But I know she will return.

She always does.