The last time you saw her,

there was a sureness in her gaze not present before,

an acceptance of your place,

this beginning of an end of a beginning.

You still didn’t know what to tell her,

but anything done will resonate in those calm eyes-

that she is more than the nothing you say,

but that will never be enough.

“You don’t know how beautiful you are” she says, and that, to her, is strange.

She tells you, over and over.

She wants you to believe her,

to use her as a mirror instead of a maze to get lost in.

Still, she lets you try,

mistaking freckles for breadcrumbs by moonshine,

enough light to find your way in,

then out.

You try to picture another face and wonder what they’ll look like when you find them,

beneath the rock,

hiding in the haystack,

made in the rough,

Their arms like doors and eyes like windows, waiting to be the place you live.

You know they’ll inspire your coveted words.

She,

She will be a letter at the bottom of a box in the back of your closet you will read over

only upon coming home,

to remember how much you are missed when you’re gone,

to remind you what’s left when you leave.