To sing her praises,
with my voice,
would be to paint the ocean
on the back
of a napkin.
And yet I’ve tried,
because words are all I have
running through my brain,
and through my veins,
and out my broken mouth.
When I see her again,
after all this time,
these words will break apart,
and all I’ll have is an open heart
spouting nonsense to the beat
