quiet moments
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She never slept; morning simply found her standing at the edge of night while the sky bruised itself into gold.
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Morning arrives from the wrong side of insomnia, catching her awake as darkness packs itself away one pale color at a time.
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When sleep would not come, she wrapped two tired daughters into a stroller and carried their exhaustion outside to meet the moon.
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At 4:20, one brief smoke break becomes a seam between chores, sleeping children, and the tired body carrying the whole day.
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At four in the morning, the babies sleep, the house belongs to silence, and Honey kneads the weight of the night out of a tired lap.
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Once the babies finally sleep, Honey claims the quiet hours, curling close as though she has been waiting for exhaustion to make room for her.
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At 12:10 p.m., one sleepy child opens her eyes and morning finally begins on her own stubborn schedule.
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Nightly joy arrives in the small things that survive the dark—quiet rooms, warm bodies, and moments no one else sees.
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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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The hour before evening softens the day’s sharp edges and gives a tired house one small place to exhale.
Between Bruises & Blooms 