Sunrise Through a Dirty Window

The sunrise bleeds orange
through a window smeared with dust.
Another day cracks open,
reluctant, slow.

The coffee’s bitter,
burnt at the edges,
like my patience.
But the warmth spreads,
a slow, familiar comfort.

I watch the city wake,
car horns a distant hum,
like bees trapped in a jar.
Each building a grey promise
of routine, of work, of bills.

Yesterday felt like a lifetime,
a marathon of shoulds and oughts.
Today stretches ahead,
unmapped, uncertain.

There’s a crack in the ceiling,
a jagged line tracing
a path I can’t follow.
It reminds me of that fault line
in my own resolve,
always threatening to split.

I remember her laughter,
echoing in a room now silent.
A memory, sharp and bright,
a shard of glass in my hand.

She said the stars were holes
in the fabric of the night,
letting the light of something bigger
shine through.

I try to see that now,
through the grime and the grit.
To find the pinpricks of hope
in this suffocating grey.

The cat stretches, a furry comma
in the sentence of the morning.
He doesn't worry about deadlines
or broken promises.
He just purrs.

Maybe that's enough.
Just to purr, to exist,
to feel the sun, however filtered,
on your face.

The orange deepens,
turning the dust motes to gold.
Even in this small, cluttered space,
there is a kind of beauty.

A resilience, a stubborn refusal
to be completely extinguished.

The city sighs,
a collective exhale of weary souls.
But somewhere, someone is singing,
a faint melody carried on the wind.

And for a moment,
just a fleeting, fragile moment,
I believe it might be okay.
That even through the dirty window,
light can still find its way in.
That even I can find my way through.

Maybe tomorrow, I'll clean the window.
But for now, the sunrise is enough.
Just enough.