Alice

How can I ever be good enough

For a poet-girl who

Sculpts universes from the

Emptiness of a shadow,

Whose joy and grief are

Dots and commas and similes

Flaming bright and fierce

As night-stars on her hair?

When I dream, I dream of Alice.

When I close my eyes,

It's her.

Curled hair, and hazel-brown
Skin, a navy blue shirt (She

never wears dresses), a laughter

That plucks the strings

Of a resounding melody
Humming birdsongs in my ears.

It's been a decade, Alice.

It's been a decade, and

It's still you.

It's always you.
You and your words.