She Moves Like Departure

Not tethered, not claimed—

just a woman who knows how to fold a life

into the lining of a carry-on.

Silk sets and tailored breath,

her presence enters before she does—

a sigh pressed into marble lobbies,

perfume chasing the shape of power.

Every city is an unfinished sentence

and she’s the comma that curves,

pausing just long enough

to unbutton the quiet.

They think she arrives to end things.

But she isn’t the axe—

she’s the glint on the blade,

the whisper before the restructuring.

Elegance with an aftertaste of warning.

The boardroom stares,

the waiters watch,

the dating apps flood like monsoon season

in places where she never unpacks her name.

Romance is a timed event—

no attachments,

just glances that shimmer then vanish,

a mathematics of bodies that never ask for more

than the moment can hold.

Sometimes it’s a man with slick shoes and a wife in another time zone.

Other times,

a woman with lips like declarations,

texts like ignition,

and a face once paused on-screen

between fame and anonymity.

Desire becomes transmission—

a digital rite.

The body answers, even in silence.

They send pictures,

videos,

proof of longing with no address.

And she receives them like relics,

not to keep,

only to know she was once wanted

by someone who knew better

than to ask her to stay.

She isn't lonely.

She’s just never still.

Some mistake that for ache—

but really, it’s flight,

repeating itself

in every city that forgets her name

by morning.