Poetry floats from their mouth
like dragon smoke in December.
Happiness relaxes on their cheeks
like a glittered recliner and
the sound of their laugh gets caught in my hair.
Their eyes are the glimpses of sky between the clouds,
the trees that dare to grow on the mountaintop,
the earthen caves waiting undiscovered behind the waterfalls.
Energy spills around them like their rainfall skirts
and shoots out of their teeth when they smile.
Their face is a freckled galaxy
that locks away the truth of the universe.
They hold the key in the palm of their hand,
wrapped in the fingers that created the sweet harmony of time.
They glow with a warm lavender light
like a meadow radiates technicolor blooms
and their hair blossoms from the same garden
that gave birth to emotion
and sprouted an emotion of thought.
They are fierce, a warrior
battling the thunderstorm clouds
and they are a butterscotch candy
dipped in chocolate and coated in sprinkles.
They are everyone’s Giving Tree,
even when their leaves desert them
and taller trees refuse to share their sun.
They are the embodiment of art:
a rainbow poem, a crystal mural, and a perfumed symphony
rolled into dough and sculpted
into vanilla scented rolls of film.
They are the moon, friends with the stars,
contentedly suspended above the world,
yet they are grounded,
floating with the grass between their toes.
I long to be their grass, their shoes, their pen,
to aid them in the Thundercloud War;
I long for their freckled face beside mine
and for the key to press between our palms;
And I long to be the poetry that dances through their lips,
painting emotion in color and carving with thought,
until the world is coated in a too-brief infinity.