I like the girl-

Who writes poems

Who each have a voice,

Assertive tones-

That boil and burn,

Or whispers-

Floaty and cautious

Like balloons-

Heading for the stratosphere.

She's radiant-

To her, suddenly,

The world's a tangible thing,

Like the fur of a cat

Or the stickiness of jam.

She's been blind for so long-

Her eyes unfocused and foggy,

Like windows on a drizzly

Winter night.

Sepia photographs

Made up her eyesight

With only a hint of red and gold

To spark her into life.

I like her…

She's so joyous and free

With her limericks and her hymns

Her wild, spicy imagery

And that quill tucked behind her ear.

I catch a flash of her-

A mere laugh,

Hidden in a gust of wind-

She's in the pink of my cheeks

And the blue pen words

Scribbled on napkins

And post-its.

She's right there

In her glassy,

Smooth, tinfoil home,

Her room is mine-

But…

I don't believe she's me.

At least...

Not yet.