The Blue Door’s Lullaby

The sun is doing that thing again—bleeding through the paper screens like a slow, golden bruise. My head feels heavy with yesterday’s secrets and today’s silence. I lean against this blue door; it's cold enough to wake my skin but warm enough to keep me from moving.

I can still taste the espresso on my tongue and hear your voice trailing off into sleep in the next room. It was a long night of weaving words together, stitching our lives over half-empty glasses until the city outside surrendered to shadows. Now, there’s just this: the quiet ache of being known.

You haven't woken up yet, but I can feel your presence like a low hum in my chest. It’s healing, really—the way you let me be messy and unpolished. In this old courtyard, surrounded by history that doesn't care about our petty heartbreaks, we are just two bodies trying to find home.

I close my eyes for a second longer. The air smells of dust and jasmine. I’m not ready for the day to start, but maybe as long as your hand is still resting on mine in sleep, the morning doesn't have to be so loud.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn