Every night is amazing with you.  I can't believe what I was missing all that time.  And all it took was work.  Work and love and faith.

I'm terrified I'll get hit by an eighteen wheeler and I'll never hear you tell me you love me again.  More than I'm afraid of the large hadron collider.

Aside from all the awkwardness, I hope you enjoyed tonight as much as I did.

I can't lie; I'll probably spend a good deal of the day looking off, hoping to see you pull up.  And I'll probably trip on a couple stairs doing so.  And I might not be able to carry two boxes at once.  You always made me feel stronger than I was.

Picking out an apartment was difficult, but I knew what I wanted and we had never looked for places together.  Picking out dishes and cups is much harder because I still look for the stuff you'd like because it's what I would want too.  I guess if things work out you'll feel comfortable at my place.

I want to be your roommate so badly that it hurts in my chest, stomach and feet.  It's so hard to know I can't be right now.

Riding atop one of those tourist double decker buses, headed out from the city, I get the inclination.  I bury my head in your neck and kiss, and you are transported to where there's no cold, no birds and no sun.  We are alone up here.  I ask if you would want to stay a few days.  You want to say yes and then everything else comes back.  The sun, birds and cold and you tell me you really want to go to Pinehurst and you can't afford to stay with me at all.  You even threw a party to raise money.  A World War Three themed party.  I tell you that's a horrible theme for a party.  You're not listening.  You're gone again, the steam of my breath keeping you warm, buried in each other until I wake from my chest aching, my feet gone numb.  This is every night.

I'm piling pillows on the bed under the comforter in hopes that some winter magic will take place and you'll be there when I pull back the sheets.

I'm reading this poem
I'm reading this poem upstairs
next to the cat box
so eloquent
I'm reading this really fucking good poem
The kind where your heart tenses up
Like when the strings get heavy and
the two main characters marry someone
they're not supposed to
in a montage with the background music
I downloaded and put on a mix
just because your hand squeezed mine
a little bit harder
and I almost spilled the Milk Duds.
I'm reading this really fucking good poem
upstairs
and it's hard to believe you won't want me
to trip down the stairs and read it to you.

Resolved: This week will now and forever be referred to as "The Week of Great Messages."  That is all.