8 Rita -

Tonight, she walks home under a bruised sky. The moon follows her like a shy dog. She does not turn around. She knows what loves her without looking.

Rita again. Now as a root. Underground, patient. She grows toward water no one else hears. Her loyalty is a long, quiet verb. 8 rita

Always the last one to leave a gathering, not from loneliness, but because she believes goodbyes should be slow. She folds her coat like a letter. She waves twice. Tonight, she walks home under a bruised sky

Intuition that cuts through small talk. She will not ask, “How are you?” unless she has seven minutes to hear the real answer. Her honesty is a clean window. not from loneliness