once you asked if you could read the notebook I was writing about us.
I said maybe. someday. some of it. you never did.
one year later I find myself compiling the outpourings of my heart.
over one year from then, I find myself with a book.
it is not always pretty. it is sometimes beautiful. it is always true. and it is always, always, about love.
but this one poem, from that very first journal… it’s not in there. it’s just for you. so here it is.
how we say i love you
and baby thumbs
backward eight knots
and who pours their syrup wrong
terms of endearment –
you silly goose –
and teasing little arguments
(who really did
knock over the projector
fill me with giggles
and skip through class-filled
your finger’s mischievous
on my nose
lighting up my life for always.