My Best Poem

They ask me if I still write— if the words still come like they used to, in the quiet moments between coffee and sunset, between heartbreak and healing. I tell them: I haven’t written much lately. But oh— look at her. She is every line I ever dreamed of writing. A stanza wrapped in softness, tiny fingers curled like quotation marks around my heart. Her laugh, a rhythm I never could capture— and yet, here it is, dancing through the room like a chorus I never want to end. She speaks, and the world rewrites itself in gentler language. She is my metaphor for hope, my simile for joy. A poem not inked on paper, but breathing, becoming, being. No verse I’ve written could match the way she looks at me— as if I am both author and reader, the hands that held the pen and the arms that now hold her. So when they ask me, what’s your greatest work? I just smile and say: Her.