A far cry from the name she
answers to. There are no
blossoming flowers here nor
mint fresh air bubbles to
blow.

Some days she is the
only who one speaks to me,
the only one who knows what
I sound like. There are others
who call and knock on doors
but hers is the only voice
I listen to. Together
we salute the fiery orb and
airbrush silver crescent moons.

One day I hope that she will
want to watch me grasp the
peacock's tail. Some day I hope
that I can watch her toss her
pearls. Together we could touch
those drops of falling rain with
painted blue fingertips.

A far cry from the names
we carry. There are never any
blossoming flowers here nor the
various joys of life. But her face
is the first thing I look at every
morning and mine are the only
palms that she can touch. Every
single rain soaked morning.