Facing East

Morning comes
without asking what survived the night.

Not light—
not yet—
just the loosening of dark
along the edges of things
that held anyway.

The sky thins.
Streetlamps hesitate.
Somewhere, a bird tests the hour
with one sharp note
and decides to wait.

I stand where I am
and don’t turn.

Breath fogs, then clears.
The ground is cold enough
to be honest.

Whatever ended
stays unspoken behind me—
not buried,
not forgiven,
just out of view
like stars fading
because they’ve done their job.

Ahead, the day arranges itself
slowly, deliberately—
shadows retreating inch by inch,
roofs emerging,
windows catching a dull sheen
that will become use.

Nothing demands belief.
Nothing promises relief.

Only this:
the direction holds.

I move with it—
quiet, intact,
carrying exactly what I need
and no longer looking back
to see if the dark
is following.