Inventory

I am not built from wreckage.
I am built from noticing.

From the way dusk leans
before it leaves.
From jokes that land sideways.
From staying long enough
to finish my drink
and leaving before I’m asked.

I keep warmth like contraband—
quietly,
close to the body.
I don’t explain what I love.
I let it show up
or not.

There is a low hum in me,
a private satisfaction,
a fondness for my own shadow
when it stretches.

I know the pleasure of choosing nothing.
Of mornings that do not audition.
Of being unreadable
and kind anyway.

I am not an answer.
I am not evidence.
I am not a bruise with a moral.

I am a woman
standing in her life
the way a cat stands in a doorway—
alert,
unapologetic,
deciding.

No aftermath.
No proving.

Just breath,
and wit,
and a steady affection
for the person I’ve become
when no one is watching.