It's Her.

Some women are… you know, they’re fine. They’re gorgeous and beautiful and smart and they’ve got everything. But they don’t have it. And it’s just… well, I have no idea what it is. It’s just there. And I know it. And she knows it. And she has it. And it’s something there, something under the surface, something sparkling, something that dances around like little crystalline packets of icy snow when they bounce off the ice and skitter all around and shine a thousand twinkling light beams through the aether. Something living. Something I just want to wrap my arms around and surrender myself to entirely at the same time.

Sometimes those moments with her, they just glow and shimmer, they shimmer in a way I’ve never seen before, a way I’ve never had with anyone else before, ever. And when those glittering little flickers of joy, of perfection, of peace, when they flash by me they don’t pass like other moments. They stay there like the brightest Kodachrome photographs, and she does it to me somehow, she hangs them up all around my head, and whenever I’m with her, whenever I’m not with her… these moments are always just pure as snow, pure as day, and they stay with me… you know, that’s the strangest part. It’s like she’s always there. She doesn’t pass, and she doesn’t leave, and those little moments seem like they last forever because I’m always remembering them, always thinking of them, always wishing and hoping they were now.

And I’ve never had this before, not like this. I’ve had girls that I couldn’t get out of my head, like a catchy earworm, like something that pesters you for a month and then leaves, but this… this isn’t like that. This is a lot more like an angel is always with me and she’s whispering and singing in my ear and holding me and kissing my neck and she loves me and she’s there and it’s not empty anymore, I’m not lost anymore, and the world isn’t empty, the world is full, like a garden springing back to life after a winter in which the ground froze cold. And that’s me: I’m the garden, and she’s the sun, she’s coming at long last to rescue me, and it’s been so, so, so long since she’s been here. But she’s been here all the time, it feels like. I can’t imagine that I ever lived without her or that I ever will, and sometimes I wonder if the two of us aren’t perfect, if we couldn’t just float off to space in joyous union and be bonded forever in the solar rays of our home sun, that light diffracted into scattered waves of an open blue planet radiating hope into the universe from a burning hot core fueled, as it must be, by that deepest universal love which keeps me living.