A whirlwind of leaves float around in my mind, before an image of her consumes all other thoughts. Blue and gold eyes. Strawberry blonde locks. A smile so sweet that I am compelled to wonder what it tastes like. I cannot describe this state, nor fathom the reason for it. To call it love would be to admit that I managed to deceive myself.
Yet here I am, and there you are, miles away, and I wish it weren’t so.
It has to be in the way I smile when your name lights up the screen, how you chuckle like a six-year-old on the phone, or those little butterflies that flutter for every moment I see you, even after these dozen seasons that I have known you.
She numbs the mind,
I wax poetic
For she is walking poetry.