Her

She walks like she knows something the room doesn't. Her laugh is the sound of a door opening somewhere you want to go. She doesn't try to be beautiful. She just forgets to be anything else. When she reads, her lips move slightly— not enough to hear, just enough to prove the words are alive inside her. She carries her sadness like a library book— quietly, close to the chest, always meaning to return it. I don't know how to tell her that the room changes temperature when she enters. So I write this instead— short, like the breath she leaves me with.