I don't want you to worry when I exhale audibly. I'm just tired and anxious, impatient and obsessive. I want to finish what I'm doing, baking chicken and potatoes with a sweetpea sauce, and sit next to you. A simple thing, just for the two of us to enjoy, sitting so close to one another.
I always know that you'll rest your foot on the rung of my chair, recline against the wall and furtively glance at the game on tv while you laud my cooking. I find so much comfort in knowing what to expect from you. Your intentional surprises, the simple, elegant daisies and sunflowers, they make me see that I love the unpredictable in you as well. And I love the comfort in knowing that there are two sides of you -- baseball fanatic and poet; jazz and Jimmy Buffet.
You say that you're an aging hipster; I see you as a life that's just begun living. You don't know that when I read your words I fall for you more and more intensely. You don't know that every kiss I can steal from you is treasured.
I can't wait for the day that Orange will speak for me as I dangle a treat above his plump, fuzzy figure. I can't wait for the day that he and Dawsey have warm beds in our home. I can't wait for the day that your book collection rests permanently in a study -- a room clad with framed pictures of Nolan Ryan, Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio and Willie Mays and shadowboxes filled with your multiplying pinback collection.
In the corner, The Divine Miss Dawsey and Mister Orange will rest on padded fleece, you will recline behind your desk on a cold winter's morn, thinking through the plot of your second novel while musing on a short story you might include in your third collection.
My only question to you: When you put me in your poems and they bring tears to my eyes, does that make them any better or worse to you?