At night, she comes with her notebook and colors dreams
with words so vibrant sunglasses are needed to block the pigment.
The pen moves readily, steadily along the paper and paints
pictures with prose and music with harmonious rhythms.
The stunning silhouette of her tapping away on the vintage typewriter
triggers flooding and after-shocks within the human chest cavity.
Drinking tea and staring out the window at the view from above,
she moves to the beat of her mind and the ring of her heart.
In my unconscious fantasies, I am the paper she types upon,
the words she chooses, and the pauses she places for significance.
If only she were closer, my presence would filter into her writings
as I sit in the corner and watch her create books and make history.