Rain before the launch

The rain arrived before dawn and has not yet decided whether it means to stay. From the kitchen window the courtyard is a slate of wet concrete and dark leaves, and the cezve on the stove makes its small, familiar complaint as the foam rises. I have been moving commas again. Not large changes, only the kind that feel enormous at this hour: a word swapped for a quieter one, a sentence allowed to end sooner than it wanted to. Pre-launch nerves do not announce themselves as drama. They show up as this: staring at a page I already know by heart and wondering if the air in the room has shifted.