It never takes too long. So they say. And I believe them, now. Because I have not seen precious for so long, and I have never heard a snore with your syncopation, how it calms me, how it rocks me, how it shatters me to sleep with quiet irony and comic. Relieved, I am, of a post I stood so long to guard what guards me where gardens thrive and sleep. You do. You slumber, and I am first to witness this so you can second my opinions when we wake and live a while. Shutting my eyes, you persuade the soul, the mortal however, to keep my third eye open because it takes a sixth sense to know this kind of peace. Why else does a savage war with conflict if not to salvage what is present, a synonym for gift and current. And again, your irony swoons me. So please, when you wake to kiss the sun with your illumination, kiss me, also with inspire. Because it never takes too long, so they say, to leave hesitation, and you are my time’s keeper. When I walk, when I work, when I write you are my thoughts, so you see, you master the seconds. Because if I can’t wait for a shift to end, your memories bring the end in swiftness. And when troubles seem to quicken my heart’s rhythm, you can pace it. And I know my heart beats are a misrepresentation of time, but it tells me I’m alive in a chapter well written, so regardless, you are heaven on canvas where no man has need to keep a watch because I am only late if I am on the way. To say with generic, you can have your hair jet black or bright blonde like the rays kids rally under, swinging on bars we named after a distant cousin, but you will always be unique and perfect like your paintings. And I will always have a thousand words worth hearing like that proverb about a picture. When you’re in them, that is. So paint with your mind’s brush-strokes of a genius, and I remind you - remember -you are masterpiece. And I will write. So no soul can forget. What you do to me.