with ink of sunlight

I am writing to address you
on the subject of your hair; it's short, choppy & blown
like a half-cropped dandelion. you remind me
of a cat, purring and sun-warmed - I
have never seen you angry, even at me. I
would like to hold your hand. it
might be smaller than mine, I don't know, but I suspect
it would be soft - you're a singer, a flautist, there'll be
no calluses from guitars. your voice is like honey. it's ridiculous
how talented you are, how tiny and huge, delicate
in a way that's impossible to miss. we laughed together, the other day -
you made me act out the stupidest things. charades, geek-style - a 'natural log'
because
there is nothing about you which is slow. but this is a letter
written on clouds - I fear paper would rip
were I to pen it. I'll remain,
your Echo -

(you make someone smile
just by being)