Between Bruises & Blooms

I spent the hours before midnight
doing everything
except sitting still.

I melted butter and marshmallows
into something soft and ridiculous,
stirred Rice Krispies through the sweetness,
pressed them into a pan
like maybe I could press time forward too.

I softened butter with peanut butter,
measured out another batch of comfort,
left the bowl waiting on the counter
while I stepped outside for a smoke
and checked my phone again.

Refresh.
Amazon.
Refresh.

Australia had me.
Japan had me.
India had me.

My own country,
apparently,
needed me to bake first.

So I did.

I gave the book a home on my website.
I found it sitting on Goodreads
like it had always belonged there.
I worked on the little pieces
that make a dream look official
while waiting for the biggest piece
to finally say available.

And somewhere between
sticky fingers,
cookie dough,
smoke curling into the night,
and a screen I had refreshed
far too many fucking times,

I realized
this is what becoming looks like.

Not always champagne.
Not always some cinematic moment
where the music swells
and you know your life has changed.

Sometimes you become an author
with marshmallow stuck to a spoon.

Sometimes the dream is crossing oceans
while you are in your kitchen
making peanut butter cookies.

Sometimes history happens
in the middle of an ordinary night,
and you almost miss how beautiful it is
because you’re too busy
waiting for midnight.

But I was here.

I baked.
I smoked.
I refreshed.
I laughed.
I swore at Seattle.

And while I waited for the world
to catch up with what I had already done,

I kept living.