"a new day whistling"

 

The day presses in—

a slow tightening—

and the air runs thin enough

to split the skin at my mouth’s border.

Sweat gathers at my jaw,

dust touches the tongue,

and the ground answers each step

with the dry crunch of gravel.

I pause—

right at the line

between what was

and what waits.

 

Ahead, the light thins into distance,

not a promise,

just a shape I can walk toward.

My lips sting as I breathe in,

heat rising,

yet a faint cool memory

passes through—

a scrap of shade,

a single drop of rain

that never quite lands.

Still, I cross the line again,

because staying on one side

costs more than moving.

 

 

 

 

.