haunted
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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, a candle, black coffee, and forgotten women’s names turn the witching hour into a cathedral.
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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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Beneath the moon beside a house reclaimed by forest, a small flame and glowing ember make the night feel older than it should.
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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 