Just After Dawn

The moments before the sun rises cannot be trusted. They thrive, shift and sway, manipulating the low light, deceiving. All my late night promises catch in my throat, my stories seem impossible, all the love in the world becomes make believe. Figures dancing and swaying in every shadow, some directly above me, spindle like fingers pulling hope from my heart like loose threads on an old sweater.

I become the epitome of desperation, a nightmare.

A shiver.

But there are times when I find myself half awake, the sun an hour away, fevered thoughts race-running through my head, a heavy chill on the dead summer wind, all of my missteps, my indiscretions rising up from the covers to bury me, and the instant before I am consumed, I remember you are next to me, hear the rise and fall of your breathing, see a silhouette curving up and out. In that second, somewhere between a blink and memory, you bring me out of it.

About Ryan Carty

There are some who call me, Tim?

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