darkness
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I dream of angelswith clean handsand mouths full of mercy, but morning always finds mewith smoke in my lungsand old ghostssleeping at the foot of my bed. I have begged heavento leave the porch light on,just once,so I could rememberwhat it feels liketo be expected somewhere. Instead,the dark knows my name. It curls beside melike…
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Some ghosts are still alive—the people who vanish without funeral, explanation, or goodbye and leave silence to do the haunting.
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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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At three in the morning, the world goes quiet enough for old houses, moonlight, and sleepless women to remember each other’s names.
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At twilight, candlelight and cannabis turn an abandoned ivy-covered house into a place where smoke, grief, and old walls share the same air.
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At one in the morning, an old house keeps watch while the rest of the world sleeps and every dark window seems to stare back.
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At the edge of forgetting, an old house seems to know the name of the woman sitting beneath its porch with a candle against the dark.
Between Bruises & Blooms 