Between Bruises & Blooms

You arrived
only thirty-three minutes apart,
yet somehow
it felt as though
you had always known
the other was coming.

One voice
filled the room first—
a fierce little cry
that declared,
“I am here.”

The other
turned toward the sound,
as though searching
for the heartbeat
that had kept her company
for months.

You had shared
one home,
one placenta,
one rhythm,
one quiet underwater world.

Now,
for the first time,
there was light.

Separate blankets.
Separate bracelets.
Separate names.

But never
separate hearts.

I looked at you both
and understood
that love can divide itself
without becoming smaller.

It simply doubles.

This was the first photograph—
before nicknames,
before giggles,
before first words,
before “Goosifer”
and “Izzy Bear.”

Just two tiny girls,
meeting the world
the same way they had met each other—

together.