You’re my coke. My fever. My hope.
You’re the reason I grin at odd times.
You’re the dream that makes my bed-times.
The thought that lets me mix salt in tea.
And lets my soul afloat on the Dead Sea.
You’re the reason why I stored my phone in the freezer.
The one who always pokes me to travel deeper and deeper.
You’re my imp. My face in the cloud.
My perky life, my misty shroud.
A melody at night, an off-note tune during the day.
My wildflower, my brightest ray.
You’re my rain, a lightening train.
My wordy scream.
A gurgling river gushing upstream.
I call you a story. A poem. A thought.
They call you word. Fiction. Literature. A book bought.
You’ve so many names and forms. Just like god. And art.
A gigantic halo that will never turn into dirt.
Be there. Don’t go.
Don’t leave this eccentric virago.
This overtly-defensive but bruised ego.
She will do her best to make you proud.
And someday they will acknowledge her aloud.
Stay and be her muse.
Her eclipse, her full-moon, her grand ruse.
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