Morning arrives as a pale rose stain along the windowsill, gathering itself in the quiet places where teacups cool and curtains hold the scent of rain. The garden has not yet decided to be bright; it only blushes, softly, as if remembering a kindness from yesterday.
There is a language kept by petals after they fall: a vocabulary of hush, of almost, of stay a little longer. It is used in only the tenderest hours, when bees move like small golden thoughts and every shadow is edged with lavender.
By afternoon, the whole world seems made of translucent paper. Light passes through leaves, through linen, through the thin blue distance between one breath and the next. Nothing asks to be kept, and so everything becomes more precious.