I stare at her from the other side of the pool,
her hair made of dandelions,
her skin of poetry.
I read the words across her body.
She does not speak.
Instead she smiles and waves,
inviting me to join her.
I trace the words on her smooth skin with my fingertips,
gazing into her eyes.
She stares back into mine, and runs her fingers through my wet, wet hair.
I ask her what it feels like, to be beautiful and made from words,
to which she just smiles and fades away.
elipoems 