This is for my husband, Darrell.
You are the friend and the lover,
the counselor and the counseled.
You are the sweet cream in my coffee
and the bananas in my cheerios.
You are the warm, fuzzy socks on my feet,
and the hair tie holding my pony.
However, you are not the milk in my cereal,
the cream cheese on my bagel,
or the cranberry juice.
And you are certainly not the lemon in my water.
There is just no way you are the sour that forces
salivation.
It is possible that you are gritty,
maybe even rough around the edges,
but you are not even close to being immoral.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither perfect
nor imperfect.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I also lack perfection.
I also happen to be the sugar in your coffee,
the black pepper on your fried egg,
and the Cutie in your lunch.
I am also the hot tea when you are sick
and the warm blanket when you are cold.
But don’t worry, I’m not the fuzzy socks and the bananas.
You are still the fuzzy socks and the bananas.
You will always be the fuzzy socks and the bananas,
not to mention the lover and—somehow—the best friend.
