Between Bruises & Blooms

When the world
has finally exhausted
its excuses,

I return
to the hour
that has always
recognized me.

Midnight
doesn’t ask
why my hands
are stained with ink,

or why
the coffee has gone cold
beside another page
that refused
to stay empty.

It has watched me
bury heartbreak
between commas,

raise children
inside unfinished poems,

carry ghosts
without letting them
touch the living.

The moon
has become
an old friend—

silent enough
to keep secrets,

bright enough
to remind me
that darkness
has never been
the absence of light.

It is simply
the place
where forgotten things
learn to bloom.

So if you find me
awake
when the clock
forgets yesterday,

don’t mistake it
for loneliness.

Some gardens
only open

after midnight.