The imprecision of metaphor

You are the only person I cannot respond to with any pretense; you make me laugh out of your delight, reveal my thoughts because you want to know them, and forget my direction because you are heading another way. You cause the pages of my books to empty themselves of meaning, the chatter of Plato and other ghosts to fall silent; you make the questions of physics and politics grow strangely distant, and literature more and more terribly beautiful. You are the imprecision of metaphor that sets poetry free. I cannot think of you without the world slowly growing perfect; I cannot respond to you without recourse to poetry, and it is a strange thing to be writing about you. It is like writing about inspiration.

And so it goes
and so it goes
and so will you soon, I suppose.