Her first words were poetry,
Painting passion into people
like every soul was a self-portrait titled
"Kindness".
As a child she gave each color words that they
could only ever scream,
She gave a voice that flowed like water,
A symphony of dreams.
She grew like fondness,
Towering above us at five foot everything
but forever looking up
like we were the night sky holding starlight in our eyelids
like secrets.
She waits.
Soaking in silence, still
Waiting.
Like the world is whispering
and she's trying to hear it.
Her own whisper floats like falling snow
that melts on your eyelashes
so that it might retrace the steps
of the last tear you cried
just in case,
It's not too late to catch it.
She is a million moments of lightness,
A thousand "I'm sorry's" for the wrongdoings of others.
She is one hundred sleepless nights
of someone else's nightmares,
Kept up with gallons of fresh-ground giving
wanting nothing in return but to know
She means it.
She's got big in her fingertips
like the sun setting and rising into itself,
Until it burns the whole sky down.
She is a quiet presence with an absence
that deafens.
Planting patience into moments
like flowers.
So that you can watch them grow
into a billion brilliant bulbs
of every miss you've ever made,
But were too scared to hope for.
She paints life onto the ordinary
until it knows that it was never anything
but beautiful.
Forever expanding the vocabulary
of the colors she breathed words into
in a children's coloring book
whose lines could Never keep her in.
While the whole world waits,
Just hoping to hear them.
To my friend, whom I love.
