I sit here, waiting. Waiting for inspiration to blind-side me.

I look around until I see a stack of stories & I remember when I wrote them, when I had that endless amount of creativity.

Then I think of the woman who made everything bearable.

With her around, everything’s not so terrible.

My fingers got to work before my brain told them to do so.

I wrote “Her voice is what symphonies are made of. When I see her, my heart is anything but slow.

Her lips are what Shakespeare wrote of, & I hope one day those beautiful lips will utter to me ‘Love’.

Her eyes are what DaVinci had in mind, for she is an angel. She is truly one of a kind.

She holds herself with such Audrey Hepburn grace, to where you can’t help but have a smile on your face.

I can’t help, but feel humble. When I talk to her, her beauty astounds me to where I unknowingly mumble.

She makes every experience last. She’s always determined in her present task.

Her hair is of brilliant gold & I hope it’ll stay that way when she’s, heaven forbid, old.

She’s my life house leading me to shore. When I grow old, her presence is what I ask & nothing more.

If she’s sad & blue, I’ll ask, ‘Dear Angel, what’s wrong with you?’

And even as she’s sad & cries, I can still see heaven in her eyes.”