sometimes I think
there’s something eternal
in the way your heartbeat moves
not loud like thunder
but more like a soft wind
brushing through the forgotten corners
of the cosmos
a rhythm older than language
older even than the first sigh
that split silence from sound
your chest rises like the tide
and I swear the stars lean in
just to feel the shift
the dust of dreams
the quiet particles left behind
by every hope you never spoke aloud
seems to lift as if your pulse
were the voice of gravity itself
and I want to press my ear
to that space just above your ribs
not to listen for answers
but for the hush between each beat
the place where the universe
waits to be reminded
that it is still becoming
something beautiful
Almost
Disappointment is a quiet guest.
It doesn’t slam doors or shout, it slips in softly, pulls up a chair beside your hope, and whispers, “Not this time.”
It arrives in the spaces where dreams once stood.
In the silence after the phone doesn’t ring.
In the sigh after the words you needed go unsaid.
It’s the echo of almost
almost enough, almost perfect, almost yours.
We don’t talk about disappointment enough. Not in the way we should. We call it failure. We brush it off with logic. We bury it beneath gratitude because “things could be worse.” And sure, maybe they could. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Disappointment is love with nowhere to go.
It’s the shape your heart made around something that never quite arrived.
But maybe disappointment is also a compass.
A way your soul tells you: “This mattered.”
A sign that you’re still reaching,
still believing, still alive enough to feel.
So let it hurt.
Let it ache in your chest like rain that won’t fall.
Let it unravel you, just a little, because in the unraveling, there’s room to be remade.
Then gently gather the pieces of your hope.
Not the shattered illusion, but the part of you that dared to want more.
And try again.
Write the poem. Ask the question. Make the call.
Disappointment is not the end.
It’s the comma in a sentence
you’re still brave enough to finish.
Dandelion Dreams
they begin in silence
small suns tethered to the earth
by stems too thin to carry
the weight of wanting
we find them
in cracks of sidewalks
in the untamed corners of fields
where wild things learn
the language of the wind
I pluck one
soft as a whisper
and close my eyes because
dreams need darkness to take root
a single breath
and the seeds scatter
each a wish
each a maybe
each a map
without a destination
no one sees where they land
that’s the magic
that’s the risk
but the wind keeps them moving
and that’s enough to believe
that even weightless things
can find their way home
Scattered
and everything she was
scattered into stars
not with fire
but with the softness
of breath leaving lungs
with the final exhale of something
that loved too deeply
she was not meant to stay contained
she spilled beyond the borders of names
beyond the limits of flesh and time
she came undone in light
now she lives in the hush
between moonrise and sleep
in the way the night leans in to listen
she flickers
not missing
but woven through everything
a fragment in every shimmer
a whisper in the stillness
she is the story the sky tries to remember
each time it burns
Rhythm of life
There are weeks that flow — smooth, uneventful, even joyful. Then there are weeks like this one: heavy, complex, and unrelenting.
It’s hard to fully describe everything that made this week so difficult, but sometimes it’s not just one big thing. It’s a collection of small, sharp edges. The tasks that pile up. The expectations that feel impossible. The unexpected disruptions that arrive just when you thought you had a plan.
Sleep didn’t come easily. Energy was in short supply. Patience wore thin — with others, and with myself. I found myself questioning more than usual: Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? Am I okay?
The answer, honestly, varied by the hour.
And yet, here we are. Still standing. Still showing up.
There were moments of grace, even in the chaos. A kind message from a friend. A quiet cup of coffee. A small task completed. A laugh, when I least expected it. Sometimes, surviving a hard week is about recognizing those moments and letting them carry a little extra weight.
I don’t write this to complain. I write it to acknowledge — for myself, and maybe for anyone reading this who also had a hard week — that not every stretch of time will be easy. That’s part of the rhythm of life. What matters most is how we respond. Whether we pause. Whether we rest. Whether we allow ourselves the space to be human.
If this week was hard for you too, I see you. Let’s breathe, reset, and carry what we’ve learned into the next one.
Better days are coming. Happy Friday my friends
Much love ❤️
Jennifer
Sunday thoughts
Hey everyone, I just wanted to take a moment to check in and see how your Sunday was going.
I spent the morning finishing up some laundry, then went outside to enjoy some sunshine and pool time. Gosh, it’s been super hot here, but great weather for swimming. Now, this afternoon is some relaxing, and blogging, followed by dinner later.
If you’re working through the day, I hope you’re finding moments of peace amidst the chaos. If you’re spending time with family or friends, I hope those moments are filling you up with warmth and connection. And if you’re taking a break, I hope it’s just the right kind of restorative.
I think Sundays are the perfect reminder that life isn’t just about the big moments—it’s about how we choose to spend the small ones, too. So, whatever your Sunday looks like, I hope it’s giving you exactly what you need.
Let me know how you all are!
Imprint
it happens in the quiet moments
when the world forgets to be loud
and my thoughts have space to wander
that’s when I feel it most
the shape of you
still carved into my days
a laugh I can almost hear
the ghost of a conversation
we never finished
missing you isn’t a sharp pain
it’s much softer
like the ache of a song
that ends too soon
or the warmth left in a room
you just stepped out of
it lingers and waits
it reminds me that absence
isn’t always empty
but sometimes
it’s filled with everything that mattered
Who I am
the ink of my thoughts
spill softly onto blank paper
a quiet unraveling
as if my mind too full to hold itself
pours out in dark rivers
across a pale waiting shore
each word is a shadow made solid
a breath given spine and syllable
they stumble at first
unsure if they belong
but the paper listens without judgement
and so they keep coming
a slow confession of everything
I dared not say aloud
here on this empty space
my silence finds form
my chaos learns its rhythm
and the ink once caged in thought
becomes the shape of who I am
when no one is watching
Blurred
somewhere between
your gaze and my reflection
the line blurred
I tried to trace myself back
to the beginning
but there were no seams
just a smooth blending of intent
I carry your rhythm now
your preferences folded into my spine
the way you look at the world
has started to shape how I see mine
I’m not sure what is mine alone
this is not a breaking
it’s a slow dissolving
a quiet migration of self
into the space between us
I don’t know where I am anymore
without you as the map
Endless
you walk in the hollow places of me
where no light has touched
and you plant your voice
in the soil of my ribs
everything I write
carries the shape of you
your breath stitched between the lines
your pulse bleeding
into the spaces I can’t fill
you are the ache
before the words come
the sweetness after they fall
you are the reason the ink trembles
at the edge of the page
without you
I am only silence
a mouth full of unsaid things
but with you
I am endless
and I would write you
a thousand lifetimes more
just to keep feeling you
bloom beneath my skin
The Creative Chic 