Between Bruises & Blooms

There is a quiet hour
that arrives
before the evening
claims the sky.

Not morning,
with its hurried promises.

Not night,
with its heavy confessions.

Just this—
the gentle space between.

The sun hangs lower,
softening every sharp edge
the day has left behind.

The wind cools.

The birds trade
their busy songs
for quieter conversations.

Even the trees
seem to exhale.

Inside the house,
there are dishes
still waiting.

Laundry
that somehow multiplies
when no one is looking.

Tiny socks,
empty cups,
toys scattered
like little reminders
that love
is rarely tidy.

The coffee
has long since gone cold.

The cigarette
burns a little slower now,
not as an escape,
but as a pause—
a single deep breath
borrowed
from an otherwise busy life.

Tomorrow
is already gathering
at the edge of my thoughts.

There will be bottles
to wash,
diapers to change,
stories to write,
dreams to chase,
and a hundred small moments
that ask for every piece
of who I am.

But not yet.

For now,
I let the world
continue turning
without asking me
to run beside it.

I watch the light
slip quietly
across the floor.

I listen
to the familiar sounds
of home.

I remember
that not every moment
has to be productive
to be meaningful.

Some moments
exist only
to remind us
that we are still here.

Still breathing.

Still hoping.

Still finding beauty
in ordinary afternoons
that will one day
become the memories
we ache to revisit.

So before the evening
finds me—

before darkness
collects the last
of the daylight—

I choose
to be completely present.

Not because
life is perfect.

But because
even on imperfect days,

there is something sacred
about the hour
that asks nothing of us

except
to notice
that we made it
this far.