I wish you were the poet,
and I the silent reader,
following footsteps left in dust
I have never touched,
yet tasted in the way
you wear each adventure
across your eyes.
My pen has wandered
through ink-stained dreams,
passing moons and climbing hills,
but you—
you've walked the actual miles,
felt earth beneath bare feet,
let oceans whisper secrets
in languages
only you understand.
I envy how you breathe life
by simply being present,
a spirit consumed entirely
by the place
where moment meets wonder,
where journeys devour
your very being
in sweet surrender.
If this world were fair,
it would place a pen
in your fearless hand,
for words ache for a voice
that's lived,
that's seen,
that's tasted
the poetry hidden
in each corner of this earth.
And if you were the poet,
our world would soften,
grow wiser,
because you would teach us
how to truly witness
the miraculous unfolding
of everyday magic.
I wish you were the poet,
so I could read your truth,
your life a poem
that leaves nothing unsaid—
your story,
amazing and infinite,
speaking louder
than my pen ever could.
