Between Bruises & Blooms

The clock turns 4:20
while I am still gathering
pieces of the day.

Tiny socks from the hallway.
Crumbs beneath the table.
Toys abandoned
where little hands
finally grew tired.

The washing machine hums
into the darkness.

The floors still smell clean.

And somewhere between
one room
and the next,

I step outside.

Just for a moment.

Smoke curls from my lips
into the cool morning air,
soft as a secret
I don’t need to explain.

The whole street is sleeping.

My children are sleeping.

Even the house
seems to have stopped
asking things of me.

And I stand there—

barely night,
not quite morning,

with tired hands
and aching feet,

watching smoke disappear
into a sky
already beginning
to change.

There is something sacred
about being awake
when the world isn’t.

About putting a home
back together
while everyone you love
dreams inside it.

Soon,

someone will wake.

Someone will cry
or laugh
or call for me.

The quiet will break.

But right now,

at 4:20 in the morning,

the house is clean enough.

The babies are sleeping.

And for the length
of one slow exhale,

I belong
only to myself.