By V. Evermore
It's written everywhere.
Wind against her cheek,
walls murmuring their soft ink,
the thin white lines on her arms
turning into commas, not endings.
She doesn't explain.
She stands.
The air learns her grammar:
pause, pulse, proceed.
If someone listens close enough,
they'll hear it too.
Not a confession,
a map home.
She walks and the world
quietly rearranges around her truth,
finally keeping pace.