Between Bruises and Blooms
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One glowing window in a sleeping house holds the last confession of a night that still has not learned how to end.
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Lucifer becomes the quiet guardian of unfinished poems, walking through the dark as though it were simply another room.
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Myst knows nothing about the past; she only knows these hands are gentle, this bed is warm, and closing her eyes here is safe.
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A sleepless Sunday moves slowly through teething, cold coffee, drawn curtains, and the mercy of not rushing anything.
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Time does not fly so much as quietly steal bottles, teeth, first steps, and every version of the babies you thought you had longer to hold.
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At three in the morning, two wakeful little voices turn a tired house into another place where motherhood refuses to clock out.
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Before sleep, set down the worries, conversations, and impossible expectations that were never meant to follow you into the dark.
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After sunset, the brave face comes off and loneliness settles beside the cold cup, asking to be felt instead of outrun.
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Every trail becomes a kingdom when Theo reaches for leaves like stars and turns an ordinary afternoon into an adventure.
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A tarot reading beneath a quiet moon becomes less about prediction and more about listening to the truths already waiting inside.
Between Bruises & Blooms 