Living with a writer.
This is what it can be like when you live with a writer. I sent this text message to my husband a couple of days ago. I’m a shameless gusher, embarrassed, but shameless.
Text Message to My Husband
I love you.
Stating it risks redundancy,
but you who have loved me
through all the rough, raw places;
through hours of insanity
for the blessing of a moment
with sweetness and clarity;
you, who made me believe
I was lovable by staying;
by taking my hand,
even as I pushed yours away,
as my heart hemorrhaged fear,
my soul quaking
with the knowledge
that this might finally be the hurt
that turned you away from me
Even then, brave lover,
you took a chance that it was all an act,
that if you could remain,
the husk would fall away,
revealing tender kernels, plump and sweet
with the juice of innocent yearning.
Holding the very instrument of your pain
tightly against you,
intuitively, you knew
that if you could withstand the agony,
I would melt and meld with you,
and we would rush, warm and wild
through this craggy life
we were thrust into,
that we still have so much of
to live through together.
You, my lover and most steadfast of friends,
are oxygen to the burning embers of my being.
You fill my mind to overflowing
with all the ways to speak those words,
I love you.