She arrives like light settling on the evening table,
quiet, certain, without hurry.
The air shifts before she speaks,
the way weather changes before rain,
a fine electricity beneath the skin.
She sees what surrounds her as it is,
and holds her shape until she unfolds.
There are rooms in her built from memory and bone,
and doors that open when it is least expected.
Her love moves the way the ocean reshapes stone,
not sudden, not loud,
a persistence that leaves an imprint.
She touches without claiming,
and the body adjusts around her,
as if making space were something it always knew how to do.
When she leaves, nothing collapses.
The room keeps its shape.
The day continues.
Yet the body remembers
what the mind sets aside,
turning, almost involuntarily,
at the slightest trace of her.
reflections of an unquiet mind 