Writing about you is like detoxifying my soul, because my
soul is made up of words, and these past few days I’ve been
feeling so many bad things I shouldn’t feel, and thinking so
many wrong things I shouldn’t think, and they’re making my
soul all clouded up and congested, like a smoked mirror,
when it used to be that I could face you any day of the week
and you could see your reflection on it.  I like writing about
you, because with you there are no limits as to what sort of
things I could say, because no matter how over-the-top I go,
I could never really come close enough to expressing how
much I love you.  How you said you want to be all the good
things I’ve ever wanted in a man, and how you always listen
to my response to your always remembering to ask me how I
am.  How seeing you always turns the day around for me,
how ever since I fell in love with you, for the first time in the
longest time I started suspecting that the happiest days of my
life are still up ahead and I neither dodged them nor missed
them by foolishness, that I can still choose them and look
forward to them.  And how you are, indeed, all the good
things I want in a man, with a passion for life broken down
into your passion for food and for sports and for fatherhood,
and how your conversation always matches up with your poetry,
and how funny you are so naturally, and how beautiful and
special you always make me feel.  How long ago my greatest
teenage girl’s dream was to be a mother, and how recently I’ve
seriously started to doubt that I could ever be a good mother
and convince myself I should do humanity a favor and choose
not to be one, and how that got me into wondering where ever
on earth did I get that courage back in those days to dare to
nurse such a fantastic ambition, and how now, with tears in my
eyes, I’ve recovered that old dream and want to be a mother
again, mother of your children.  How writing about you brings
me back to that part of myself where I believe I can do anything
I put my mind to, and just take out the doubts and the
insecurities and the pointing fingers and the half-disguised
frowns of disappointment, just as if with a giant rubber eraser
against pencil markings, and blowing all the residue from the
page and running my fingers on the blank lines again, so ready
to be filled with new things. Like a soul newly detoxified.