she splatters verse
like paint into her poetry
and i am hypnotized by
the ebb and flow of
her imagination
swinging in and out
of rhyme or reason
each line a brush
stroke of her mind

and i swear that she is
built entirely of words
stretched across
her bones, her skin
an ink stained canvas
and that if i listen close
i can even hear
as they slowly spill out
with each sigh and
each exhale, bound together
as a completed document
and i watch in awe as they
dance behind her in
the cool night air and
follow her back home

and i am slowly learning
the vocabulary of her body
of the hidden stories
delicately tucked
like random notes
between her
flesh and bones
and i am slowly learning
that her heart is
an ancient epitaph
that holds more value
than even she could know
and once i heard
the lilt of her laughter
nothing else ever mattered
and i knew that between
her creased pages lies her soul

and that, that is the only
place i have ever wanted to go