She

She is that calling. When you are lost in the dark, she's the hand that guides you out. She is hope incarnate. She inspires, and terrifies, and is modestly unaware of her talent for inciting poetry in the world around her. She is that 3 a.m. feeling, that "I can do this" feeling when you lie alone in the dark, which lets you sleep despite your demons. She is that unbelievable will, the strength of the spirit to change, to find good in the bad and overcome. She haunts. She is Gatsby's green light, the Joads' California, Mister Flannery's ocean. She's the intangible dream of a relentless dreamer.
And when she speaks it's the song you spend hours searching for but never find. When she moves it's like she's dancing to the whispered ballad of God. And that laugh, when she throws her head back and laughs with and above everyone else and you swear you hear the angels laugh in harmony.
Your nightmare is that she passes through your life and you never let her know that you see the halo. Your death is the death which comes long before your body goes. It is the death of the soul when she leaves you forever, when there is no light to free you from yourself.