Before the Sun

The rug, a faded map

of my living room floor,

catches dust motes in the early light.

Before the coffee, before the news,

before the house stirs awake,

I uncurl myself.

It’s a specific stretch, a bend

I invented years ago, for my back,

my shoulders, the knot between them.

My left leg out, a long reach,

then a twist, a slow uncoil.

My roommate almost walked in once,

the door creaked, and I froze,

a ridiculous statue mid-lunge.

Caught in that private moment,

exposed, a secret movement

no one else needs to know.

I held my breath,

then finished it,

in the quiet, just for me.