You sit by the window watching nature be nature,
silhouetted against the sunlight raining in.
You appear as nothing but a shadow
but my mind slowly with care, starts to colour you in,
hair the colour of hay and barley, scarlet streaks,
skin the colour of balsa wood,
a dress of burgundy hugging your figure,
your feet bare, making circles in the air.
I whisper your name without thinking
and you turn to face me, smiling,
wondering why I said your name.
I can’t come up with an answer and you laugh,
something so delicate, so fragile,
that I thought it would shatter before it reached me.

Now…
now you’re sitting somewhere else,
somewhere I can’t see but you’ll be back tomorrow,
You’ll be back with more stories
and I will listen to each and every word
as they roll off the tip of your tongue
and journey to my ever-receiving ears.
You’ll tell me of Arizona and a phoenix in the desert,
how the heat gave you intense sunburn
and now your shoulders are starting to peel.
You’d go back, constantly looking to explore.

You are someone who makes her own maps,
draws in new boundaries and new sights,
offers stories instead of facts and figures,
people’s faces instead of country’s names.
Pointing to a blank part of the map,
you’d tell me that this is where your next story will be,
and I fall in love with your passion,
but I don’t travel so I can’t write stories,
so instead I will write about you.