Between Bruises & Blooms

The morning found me
before sleep did.

Caught me somewhere
between yesterday’s ghosts
and today’s birdsong,

still awake
while the darkness
quietly packed its things.

I watched the sky
begin to pale

through curtains
I never bothered
to close,

watched night loosen
its grip
one shade at a time.

There is something strange
about meeting morning
from the wrong side.

About hearing birds
announce a new day

when you haven’t
finished the last one.

The whole world
starts again

while you are still
carrying yesterday
in your hands.

Maybe that’s why
everything feels different
at this hour.

The house is quiet.

Even the walls
seem softer.

There are no demands yet.

No little hands
reaching for mine.

No voices calling
from another room.

Just me,

the hum of a house
holding everyone
I love,

and the first thin ribbon
of daylight
slipping across the floor.

I should be sleeping.

I know.

Instead,

I am sitting here
collecting words
from the space
between night
and morning.

Turning exhaustion
into poetry

because apparently
that’s what I do
with things
I don’t know
where else to put.

Soon,

the house will wake.

There will be
breakfast
and diapers,

tiny disasters,

missing things,

someone needing me
before I’ve even remembered
to need myself.

Life will become loud again.

But right now,

morning belongs
only to me.

And maybe
there are worse things
than being awake
to watch darkness leave.

Maybe there is something
almost sacred

about surviving
another night

long enough
to see the sky
change its mind.

So when morning
finds me
before sleep does,

I don’t ask it
why I’m still awake.

I just sit beside it,

quietly,

and watch
the whole damn world

begin again.