The world is still when she moves

I know this beautiful girl who is miles away from me, yet every so often she caresses my face with a few words. Well drawn and saturated with the warmth that only a mother could muster her words, when written are like her own children. attentive and patient I can see her writing with her eyes closed, growing giddy with every key stroke, watching her souls constant shouting come to life. It gives her joy she doesnt know she deserves, and when she refuses (that's right refuses) to write it's like watching leaves die in the fall. Though the summer's heat at times is unbearable I would suffer the sweltering of a thousand one hundred degree days ripe with humidity to see the green leaves blow in the wind for only a few seconds. When I see her picture I imagine that everyday the sun shines a little brighter when she walks the street, for it needs to match her glow. She shines daily, but never more to me than when she writes... no!! Releases the scriptures held prisoner in her souls deep cavernous reaches. I log on and hope to receive word that she has released prisoners of prose un written, only to be disappointed time and time again, and though I write now there is no way to describe what her words could mean if placed on paper or screen. Fred and ginger could not make it dance, Picasso could not paint it, Ingmar Bergman could not film it and I can not write it. Only she can so I ask her... are you inspired yet?