She laces her cherry Docs
and shuffles forward to knock
A book tucked under her arm
her heart ticking like a bomb
Other side of that door is a mystery
that will quickly become shared history
She rubs at the mascara under her eye
her eyes like stars dim in the winter sky
A token in her pocket from a time before lies
lies unwrapped by a time machine
Her brain overthinking every promise sanguinely
Not all stories have beginnings
Nor endings
Sometimes a middle is a killing
Of a past in an unlit cave
Even before they misbehaved
And yet they build a new order
They will be rooted in only what they foster
No longer feeling like imposters
in their own lives
no need for detectives
they unpack how they feel in luminous
spaces no need to be suspicious
because they become
fresh air
in broken lungs
and tongue-tied laces