Between Bruises & Blooms

While the house surrendered
to silence and shadows,
one window refused.

It held the last confession
of a night that had forgotten
how to end.

The vines climbed the glass
like old spirits remembering
where the light used to live,
their fingers wrapped around dawn
as though morning itself
might escape.

Outside, the trees whispered
to a sky too gentle
for the ghosts inside these walls.

Inside,
the darkness lingered—
not as an enemy,
but as an old companion
waiting beside my bed.

I watched the sun arrive
from the wrong side of sleep,
its golden hands reaching
through leaves that never asked
whether I was ready.

Some of us greet the sunrise.

Some of us survive the night
long enough to witness it.

And sometimes,
that is the holiest kind of resurrection.