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


happy trees

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

afternoon days

your finger’s mischievous


on my nose

lighting up my life for always.