She collected raindrops in her hands and poured out rays of light.

She blew the letters off the pages.

She wiped the space from silence, sliding along the parquet, and carried the music.

She could make the arrows run faster with her laughter

And make arrows fly in the opposite direction with her tears.

She crumbled fall leaves into spring flower seeds

And she wove from the web cocoons for butterflies.

She blew the fire into golden dust with one movement of her eyes.

She ran up the stairs and lost her memories on them.

She breathed in the sea breeze and with it the legends of distant shores.

She cradled the wind in the hem of her dress

And played the first strings of the morning sun like a violin.

She poured the colors of summer on the grass, drew

And kept dreams in these pictures.

She made the star goosebumps with one sleepy whisper.

She stroked the snowflakes with a cold hand and protected them on her skin that didn’t rush into the paint.

She could wake up early withered flowers in a neighboring garden with her scream

And from her fear, the leaves on her beloved apple tree lost consciousness.

She could make the thermometer cough from the sudden change in temperature she created with a tilt of her head.

Maybe all this is not true. Maybe these things never happened, they don’t exist now, and they never will be.

The only thing that’s real in all of this is her. And it doesn’t matter if she really knows how to do it all. For me, she is everything. She is so real that I sometimes doubted if I really exist.

Maybe I’m just her invention.

But even if I am really her invention, I want to be her best invention.

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