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.