Charlotte “Lotte” Vale
@espressoprose.bsky.social
A place where words meet wonder. I write a little, read a little more, and drink a lot of coffee—fueling musings on life, stories, and everything in between. Sip, dream, and linger awhile.
All photos and writings are my own unless I state otherwise.
All photos and writings are my own unless I state otherwise.
These red leaves ignite the branch from beneath,
small flames licking at the hem of the year.
There is no spectacle here.
Only the kind of beauty that reveals itself slowly
a bright, trembling defiance
against the season’s gentle fade.
small flames licking at the hem of the year.
There is no spectacle here.
Only the kind of beauty that reveals itself slowly
a bright, trembling defiance
against the season’s gentle fade.
November 18, 2025 at 7:44 AM
These red leaves ignite the branch from beneath,
small flames licking at the hem of the year.
There is no spectacle here.
Only the kind of beauty that reveals itself slowly
a bright, trembling defiance
against the season’s gentle fade.
small flames licking at the hem of the year.
There is no spectacle here.
Only the kind of beauty that reveals itself slowly
a bright, trembling defiance
against the season’s gentle fade.
Or just stay here a little longer,
where the world first paused
and let love begin.
where the world first paused
and let love begin.
November 15, 2025 at 8:53 PM
Or just stay here a little longer,
where the world first paused
and let love begin.
where the world first paused
and let love begin.
‘Verloren im Dunst‘
November 15, 2025 at 7:35 PM
‘Verloren im Dunst‘
Not every binding is a burden. Some hold me exactly where I need to be. 💛🖤
November 14, 2025 at 12:46 AM
Not every binding is a burden. Some hold me exactly where I need to be. 💛🖤
The branches caught fire in silence,
not from heat but from memory.
A thousand small flames
breathing against the dark,
as if the stars had chosen this tree
to finish what they started.
not from heat but from memory.
A thousand small flames
breathing against the dark,
as if the stars had chosen this tree
to finish what they started.
November 12, 2025 at 8:37 PM
The branches caught fire in silence,
not from heat but from memory.
A thousand small flames
breathing against the dark,
as if the stars had chosen this tree
to finish what they started.
not from heat but from memory.
A thousand small flames
breathing against the dark,
as if the stars had chosen this tree
to finish what they started.
that to endure is to change,
and to love the world
is to trust,
and to let it go, again and again.
and to love the world
is to trust,
and to let it go, again and again.
November 12, 2025 at 3:03 AM
that to endure is to change,
and to love the world
is to trust,
and to let it go, again and again.
and to love the world
is to trust,
and to let it go, again and again.
Veterans hold a sacred place in my heart. My father served in WWII and Korea, his courage stitched into the quiet strength I carry.
Their sacrifices are more than history; they’re the living heartbeat of freedom.
We owe them not just gratitude, but unwavering honor, care, and remembrance.
Their sacrifices are more than history; they’re the living heartbeat of freedom.
We owe them not just gratitude, but unwavering honor, care, and remembrance.
November 11, 2025 at 5:56 PM
Veterans hold a sacred place in my heart. My father served in WWII and Korea, his courage stitched into the quiet strength I carry.
Their sacrifices are more than history; they’re the living heartbeat of freedom.
We owe them not just gratitude, but unwavering honor, care, and remembrance.
Their sacrifices are more than history; they’re the living heartbeat of freedom.
We owe them not just gratitude, but unwavering honor, care, and remembrance.
My neighborhood lunchtime walk 🍁🍃🍂
November 7, 2025 at 8:06 PM
My neighborhood lunchtime walk 🍁🍃🍂
Sleep stands at the edge of the room,
pale, disinterested,
her hands folded around the dark.
My bones hum with fatigue,
my thoughts chase
too much and nothing,
the same ghost dressed in different names.
My chest feels tight,
my heart, heavy.
I wonder
if quiet remembers
how to find me.
pale, disinterested,
her hands folded around the dark.
My bones hum with fatigue,
my thoughts chase
too much and nothing,
the same ghost dressed in different names.
My chest feels tight,
my heart, heavy.
I wonder
if quiet remembers
how to find me.
November 7, 2025 at 8:43 AM
Sleep stands at the edge of the room,
pale, disinterested,
her hands folded around the dark.
My bones hum with fatigue,
my thoughts chase
too much and nothing,
the same ghost dressed in different names.
My chest feels tight,
my heart, heavy.
I wonder
if quiet remembers
how to find me.
pale, disinterested,
her hands folded around the dark.
My bones hum with fatigue,
my thoughts chase
too much and nothing,
the same ghost dressed in different names.
My chest feels tight,
my heart, heavy.
I wonder
if quiet remembers
how to find me.
My best friend always has the greatest costumes 🎃🥰
November 1, 2025 at 2:14 AM
My best friend always has the greatest costumes 🎃🥰
Pulling my hair into a bun, I felt the brush of another October, the year I became Wilma Flintstone for a night. The proof lies somewhere in a box of photographs, their edges yellowed by decades of forgetting.
October 31, 2025 at 8:37 PM
Pulling my hair into a bun, I felt the brush of another October, the year I became Wilma Flintstone for a night. The proof lies somewhere in a box of photographs, their edges yellowed by decades of forgetting.
Sunlight pools in golden puddles across the floor.
I sip, and it tastes of everything:
loss, warmth, longing,
the soft ache of belonging to a moment that will never last.
Outside, leaves fall and rise again in memory, and I am both part of the world and apart, fully awake to its fragile beauty.
I sip, and it tastes of everything:
loss, warmth, longing,
the soft ache of belonging to a moment that will never last.
Outside, leaves fall and rise again in memory, and I am both part of the world and apart, fully awake to its fragile beauty.
October 31, 2025 at 8:26 PM
Sunlight pools in golden puddles across the floor.
I sip, and it tastes of everything:
loss, warmth, longing,
the soft ache of belonging to a moment that will never last.
Outside, leaves fall and rise again in memory, and I am both part of the world and apart, fully awake to its fragile beauty.
I sip, and it tastes of everything:
loss, warmth, longing,
the soft ache of belonging to a moment that will never last.
Outside, leaves fall and rise again in memory, and I am both part of the world and apart, fully awake to its fragile beauty.
Oh no! You need a coffee maker 🥺I mostly use a Bialetti on the stovetop 😍🥰
October 26, 2025 at 1:06 AM
Oh no! You need a coffee maker 🥺I mostly use a Bialetti on the stovetop 😍🥰
The kind of morning made for slow work and strong coffee. The wool hums through my fingers, soft as breath, steady as thought. Outside, the world hurries on, but here, time loosens its grip. Stitch by stitch, the shape of a sweater takes form, and with it, a quiet kind of peace.
October 25, 2025 at 8:28 PM
The kind of morning made for slow work and strong coffee. The wool hums through my fingers, soft as breath, steady as thought. Outside, the world hurries on, but here, time loosens its grip. Stitch by stitch, the shape of a sweater takes form, and with it, a quiet kind of peace.
Same hydrangea bush through the seasons…
October 23, 2025 at 4:05 AM
Same hydrangea bush through the seasons…
A lone gold leaf on a bench, beckoning me over as if reserving a moment just for me.
To pause.
To breathe.
To take in the quiet.
To pause.
To breathe.
To take in the quiet.
October 23, 2025 at 2:08 AM
A lone gold leaf on a bench, beckoning me over as if reserving a moment just for me.
To pause.
To breathe.
To take in the quiet.
To pause.
To breathe.
To take in the quiet.
The Platanus is only just beginning her change. Green fading to gold, bark revealing its quiet mosaic. The season asks nothing of her but honesty, and she answers with light.
October 21, 2025 at 2:46 AM
The Platanus is only just beginning her change. Green fading to gold, bark revealing its quiet mosaic. The season asks nothing of her but honesty, and she answers with light.
October 18, 2025 at 8:43 PM
Nothing like a Saturday night at my place. Knitting and playing with Murph.
October 12, 2025 at 2:45 AM
Nothing like a Saturday night at my place. Knitting and playing with Murph.
Matt Maeson in Seattle! Every lyric full of grit and grace. Unforgettable. I’m still carrying the echo. ♥️
#mattMaeson
#mattMaeson
October 9, 2025 at 8:02 AM
Matt Maeson in Seattle! Every lyric full of grit and grace. Unforgettable. I’m still carrying the echo. ♥️
#mattMaeson
#mattMaeson
Post your wallpaper.
October 8, 2025 at 11:45 PM
Post your wallpaper.