Blessed be our heroes

Her words give me goosebumps and lodge a ball in my throat.

Her writing feels like seeing. I feel voyeuristic and ashamed witnessing such intimacy.

It's gobsmacking talent. I feel honored to hear her words threaded through my ears.

Inspiration doesn’t strike. Only holy reverence.

I’ll crawl across the cobblestones of Mexico to see her tapestry. I’ll choke out lyrics past the lump in my throat to hear her in silence.

I don’t know her. Nor do I want to. I’m in love with the word.

That’s my religion.