She's the angel by my side
warming me up like
the little dusty heater
from my childhood
with the white chipped paint flying
with every gust of lukewarm air.

She's my dryer lint and cigarette ash
that fills my nose and
in one swoop
scoops me up and sends me
on my back through
waves of subtle, glittery euphoria.

She's the disney-golden violin
in all my favorite songs
and movie moments
that make me feel sleepy shimmery
and inspired
to do great things with myself
and the innocent world.

She's the wet painting that I sit and watch dry,
I can't tear my eyes away from her because
I'm so astonished that
a few primary colors
could mix to make her in
all her swirling, glossy glory.

She's the past
in fruit-loops and
cartoon terms,
clad in hot pink memories,
black sequins and early 2000's.

She's the foreseeable future that I want--
have always wanted...
out the window there's
peaches and sunshine,
leaves on the grass,
and inside there's
a shiny, silver sink with
matching dishes in the basin.

She's the hug to my need,
the soft, concerned word to my tears,
the need that I love to hug,
the tears that I pat dry with
soft, concerned words.

She's the brick bridge
on her way to beautiful chapters filled with trees and I'm
the abutment that
watches each giddy step
with happy tears
in my blurry blue eyes.

She's the missing piece I need
to fill the shard-shaped hole
in my pinky-purple-orange
stained glass prophecy,
and I hope she doesn't mind
if I want to be with her
all the time.

She's the soul,
the glowing, pulsing, electric blue and
iridescent soul
surrounded by
a lean body and
brown eyes and
bifocals and
hair colors and
makeup and
clothes.

She's the cold rain on my
hot, emotional head
and she drips down my hair
slides to my forehead,
down my nose,
mixing with my overflowing tears from
my eyes acting as mirrors
to the purple lightning before me
and
she slowly runs down my chin,
calming me down with
controlled chaos.

She is the first flower I spot,
blinding white, long petals
in the corner of my vision
when my head is hung in defeat.

She is the second flower I watch
unfurl as I lift my head to see more
stretching and waking
from the dewy grass so
I stand and see more of her
rows of her,
billowy petals reflecting the morning sun.

She is the 60th flower I see
as the others lead my line of sight
up to a patch of light,
nearly six feet tall and
she is the flower I see
when she steps out in front of the sun
to reveal a smile
so pure and child-like,
that it surely grew every blade of grass
in the field that
I sink to my knees on
as I look up
at the blooming girl before me.

She is my friend,
my family,
my muse,
my love,

my beeb,

forever.