The Hour Before You

In that fractured hour,
time cracked like a bone,
breath split sharp
between throat and bone—
each swell a surge,
dragging me under,
muscles clenched like fists,
knuckles white, tight,
my skin slick with salt
and sweat and surrender.

I lost language,
my tongue broken open,
words shattered
into murmurs, moans,
a feral rhythm, raw
as rush and crush and push,
rocking
through waves
that stole sense
and gave only
ache, relief,
then ache again.

Clock-hands spun,
time and I alike dilated—
fast, slow, relentless,
surrendered—
minutes molten,
dripping thick
as honey from
the hive, viscous,
biting down on pain
and promise, tangled
in my teeth—metallic
and sweet.

In the hush between
each hard crescendo,
I gasped half-prayers,
bargained with the dark—
please, not much longer—
then dove again,
headlong, helpless,
bones spreading wide,
unlocked and open,
breaking bare and beautiful
apart.

Hands held fast,
voices a soft net,
woven tight enough
to catch my trembling fall—
but only just.
I hovered at the brink,
raw, rooted
in the fierce now—
where fear and hope
split into two,
like we were parsed
into you and me.

Then sudden,
swift release—
your voice cracked
the quiet, bright
and wild as dawn
splintering darkness,
my breath rushing out
to meet yours
in a ragged cry
of relief, of joy,
of knowing
we were both born new—
me into a mother,
you into the world.