She couldn't decide what color she wanted, said the walls
their three shades painted on like permanent shadows.
The photo on the wall of the first woman to win a marathon
says she wants to be someone one day
but the tiny rumpled corner of the massive bed
whispers that she doesn't like to take up space.
The layers of letters, photos, fairy lights, and poems
that cover her walls and ceiling say she likes to collect things,
and the warm wood of the floor and dim colors of the carpet
say she gets cold easily
and tries to heat her room with beautiful things.
The empty glass on her nightstand has drawn itself a ring in which to sit,
whispering that it's been there for weeks.
The mostly-empty drawers say she lives somewhere else now,
but this is still home, and she will come back.
On a shelf in the closet sits a stack of empty notebooks
next to a drooping backpack that says it could brave any adventure.
These things whisper that she believes she will be brave one day--
that she says she will be light
and will shine with a brightness that she doesn't know where to find yet.
They say she is ready, and that she is looking,
and that soon she will pick them up and run into the wild,
write with all of her soul,
climb every mountain,
learn where light hides
and maybe,
ask it to come home with her.