8 Rita Guide

Always the last one to leave a gathering, not from loneliness, but because she believes goodbyes should be slow. She folds her coat like a letter. She waves twice.

Tilt. The way she listens— head slightly angled, as if sound has a flavor. Time stops its cheap ticking. Her attention is a small, generous fire. 8 rita

Rita again. Now as a root. Underground, patient. She grows toward water no one else hears. Her loyalty is a long, quiet verb. Always the last one to leave a gathering,

Tonight, she walks home under a bruised sky. The moon follows her like a shy dog. She does not turn around. She knows what loves her without looking. not from loneliness