The Weight Of The Morning

It's 6 am again.  
I watch as the brand new day peaks from between the yellow leaves of giants standing tall.  
Their branches creak softly in the wind, as if stretching to greet the light.  
The air is cool, but not sharp...heavy with the weight of silence.  
The world is still, half asleep, and so am I, caught in the web of dreams I can’t remember.  
The morning crawls over me like a slow wave, neither comforting nor cold, just there, like a presence I can't shake.  
And with it comes a heaviness, sinking slowly, settling deep in the bones, waking things best left sleeping.  

A familiar stirring begins inside, quiet at first, like a breath held too long.  
The daylight presses against my skin, and something stirs deeper still, a flicker in the heart, a shift in the soul.  
The morning seems to call, not with words, but with something more ancient, more intimate, like the sound of your own heartbeat when the world is silent.  
It draws out thoughts I’ve hidden in dark corners, drags forgotten fears from their depths, and sets them before me, raw, exposed, undeniable.  
I can’t help but wonder: does the dawn always carry such weight? Or is it me who’s grown heavy in its gaze?