You are not my knight in shining armor. Not my savior, not my hope. Neither are you the tall, dark, handsome prince of my charmed, beautiful future. You could not hope to be one, if you'd so wanted. You have not the pedigree, not the airs, not the pomp and circumstance. You are not my dashing, debonair of a charmsman. Nor a suave Casanova versed in tricks of dinner talk and bedside manners. You are not the strong, silent, broken shell of a man, begging for my winsome healing strokes. A man of my girlish dreams you are not. A man of my teen-aged delusions you are not. A man of my imagination you are not.
What you are is my best friend in all times good, sad, bad, inane. What you hear in perfect understanding is my mind. What you are is my less than perfect lover in the sack. What you are is sanity and blessing and pain. What you do is make me upright when I am off-kilter. When the air congeals in my lungs, when the red doesn't flow smooth in my veins, when my heart pumps off-beat, then it is you I am missing. What you are is my complement. What you fit is the jagged edges of my puzzle. What you make is my life sweeter. And sour. And bitter. What you are is my love.
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