I wish I could write about her. But I can’t. The candles blow out when my fingers near the ink. She holds something more than that can be written. And I never want to dilute what she holds to the world. To try would be to fail. And I don’t ever want to fail her. Even though I do. Daily. She is like the space between two opposing magnets. A white water river, that gnashes calmly as it cuts through mountains. I want to be like her. I want her halo’d rage to carve through the mountains of my sturdy ways. That her rage that is halo’d, is also mine. I want to scream to the world about her. I want to tell them not to look away. Because there’s another flower that blossoms when majorities turn their head. A flower that sings a song heard by none, yet known by all. I want to learn this song. Let the chords of my heart play it without thought. The lack of thought it takes for moonlight to touch the skin. But I know I can’t. It’s not mine to adorn. So I’ll listen and admire. From the open air of ornamented breezes of green. For as long as she’ll let me.