She fills the emptiness
sometimes with great conversations,
sometimes with protracted silence.
A few days she hides behind my notes,
and in others she reads me out like a recital.
She makes me stand out in the crowd,
and suddenly works me up to vanish,
like a thought that is half articulated,
like an unfinished rhapsody.
She knows the whites on my canvas,
and still lets it be.
She makes me who I am,
And who I am not.