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,

pretending indifference,

as my heart hemorrhaged fear,

my soul quaking

with the knowledge

that this might finally be the hurt

that turned you away from me

forever.

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.


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