Denim and Lace
She moved like a door half-closed
On a room nobody asks about.
Eyes not daring the night,
But watching it anyway.
A smile that could bandage a wound,
But never claimed to heal it.
She poured whiskey like it meant nothing.
Like she’d learned long ago
Not to hold onto things that vanish.
Every glass was a goodbye,
Spoken in a language
Only the lost understand.
Her name was a shade of living…
She wasn't wearing lace, and I noticed.
Not because she needed it,
But because she deserved
The kind of softness that speaks,
Of elegance and love.
