She said nothing at first, just smiled
like she knew how the story ended.
Vinyl on the shelf, knives in the sink,
eyes like old mix tapes
and skin that told too many stories
to be quiet for long.
She disappeared for three days.
Came back smelling like sage and wreckage.
Called it “recalibrating.”
Said she liked me better when I didn’t talk so much.
I agreed. Just nodded.
Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t need to.
She wore her chaos like earrings,
never matched, always perfect.
Told me her father was jazz
and her mother was revolution,
and she came from the smoke between them.
She made eye contact like a challenge.
Kissed like a dare.
Left before sunrise,
but made the bed.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
