Poetry is strange sometimes.
In the way that I'll write a poem,
Words flowing freely from my fingertips,
About all of it.
But when I read it now,
It almost feels like its about you.

Except I think you'd like my poetry.

Golden locks,
Like keys on a string,
With eyes of grey,
Like a calm, cloudy day.
Yet they shine like you,
Like their own hue.
One not defined by color,
By mind or soul,
But by you.
A gift it is to see that light,
And to feel it shine like rays just right.