She sits by the light
half-awake, half-dreaming
the kind of morning where silence
feels like a conversation

Her hair, undone by the wind
and her eyes
they hold a language deeper than words
a pause between thoughts
a moment before the rain

There’s something in her gaze
not just beauty, but a knowing,
like she’s seen the sun rise a thousand times
and still finds it worth watching

She wears the weight of the world
like an old sweatshirt
loose, familiar,
but never quite forgotten

And I wonder, does she know?
That the way she exists
unfiltered, unbroken
is a kind of poetry
no one can write down