she's expensive champagne

in a paper cup world

in an alien tongue

she's a beautiful word

she's the perfect rhyme

in a poem i cannot write

the whisper in the breeze

of a midsummer's night

she's the magic

in all things that don't exist

the fond awkwardness

in that first hold-breath kiss

she's the imagination

of a child lost in play

and the reason

that my pen moves this way