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I left the pen wet. That was the first honest thing I did all day. The drop was still falling when I put on the dark coat and took the path between the two trees that keep losing their leaves on purpose. I did not turn around. Some looking is for later. The river already knew the rest. It had been practicing my name in moonlight long before I had a mouth for it. An owl kept the stem from breaking. I borrowed a little of that balance. If you find the rose made of almost-nothing, that is the part I could not say out loud. Hold it anyway. It will not stain you. It only remembers. I am the girl in the ink and the girl on the path and the quiet at the bend of the water. I wrote myself forward. I am still walking inside the wet word.
