witching hour
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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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She went looking for somewhere to put her grief and found the moon, the forest, an abandoned house, and eventually herself.
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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, every poem becomes another lantern on the long road back to herself.
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Midnight has witnessed the ink, cold coffee, motherhood, ghosts, and every unfinished version of her that found a voice after dark.
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At four in the morning, every cat in the house has a role to play—and none of them involve letting their human sleep.
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At 3:33, cold coffee, a staring cat, and a candle with no breeze make inspiration feel suspiciously close to haunting.
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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.
Between Bruises & Blooms 