Spellsinger

He is not a writer by formality,
nor inheritance, nor letters.
Rather,
he types me, word for word,
and letter for letter.

He is not a painter known in the fine arts.
He draws nowhere outside of his
own mind, from my silhouette
on his computer.

He is not a physician, despite the title.
If only to know of remedy and poison.
He feels only my medication,
and I think only of his medicine.

He is my lyricist.
I am the song,
and everything about him
is music.