Morning shock

Bare feet leave the warmth

and find the cold wood,

a slap of shock that travels up

nerves still tangled in sleep.

Cracks in the floor gape like questions,

silent and sharp,

early light spills in, indifferent,

spilling cold over skin that wishes for softness.

Heart stumbles,

searching for the thread of warmth,

but the floor says no.

This is morning’s first word:

bare, brittle,

and nothing promised.