Between Bruises and Blooms

It’s four in the morning.

The world has gone quiet,
but my mind never got the memo.

The clock keeps counting seconds
like they’re something I can spend,
while I bargain with sleep
that refuses to bargain back.

The house is still.
The coffee pot is empty.
The moon watches
without offering advice.

So I stand barefoot
in front of the refrigerator,
bathed in that familiar white glow,
staring at a slice of cheesecake
like it’s about to solve
every problem I’ve ever carried.

It won’t.

But for a few sweet bites,
the silence tastes softer.
The ache loosens its grip.
My thoughts stop shouting
long enough for a forkful
to remind me
that comfort sometimes arrives
on a chipped plate
at an unreasonable hour.

Tomorrow,
I’ll probably laugh at myself.

Tonight,
I’m choosing cheesecake
over another hour
of wrestling ghosts
that never seem to get tired.

Maybe healing
isn’t always beautiful.

Maybe sometimes
it looks like crumbs on the counter,
a sink full of moonlight,
and one stubborn soul
refusing to let insomnia
steal everything.