Six in the morning, street asleep.
Then you were there—bright and kind.
You said my name like gentle light,
and the cold let go.
Now dawn remembers you,
so I walk slow.
When you were here at six in the morning,
you warmed the cold like candlelight.
A little laugh, a borrowed hour,
a small flame making everything bright.
You were my warm, my morning light—
brilliant, then gone.
Leaves changed, weeks went by.
You grew tall; I stayed near.
Seasons turned, the door stayed shut,
and quiet stayed.
If life pulls you far,
I understand.
When you were here at six in the morning,
you warmed the cold like candlelight.
A little laugh, a borrowed hour,
a small flame making everything bright.
You were my warm, my morning light—
brilliant, then gone.
Some mornings feel too thin,
so I hold a small flame in my chest.
Not gone—just far.
When you were here at six in the morning,
you warmed the cold like candlelight.
A little laugh, a borrowed hour,
a small flame making everything bright.
You were my warm, my morning light—
brilliant, then gone.
If you come back, any morning,
I will know.
