That girl wasn’t the poet.

She couldn’t string together a melodious sentence even when someone showed her exactly how to do it.

She had trouble reading, and mispronounced the simplest words occasionally.
But she was the poem. 

The thing the poet dreams about.

The thing that has me lying awake until dawn kicks in.

She is the melodious sentence.

She is all the simple words, and all the difficult ones.

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