unaware that for me,
he's the lines of a book i read every night
he is the form of warmth and comfort i've been longing my whole life
he could take me to his favorite place and hold me tight with his words,
enough for me to worry about print marks

how do i tell him that,
he is the blotch of ink on the last line of my poetry,
giving it a beginning but never an end
not now,
not ever,
because we are here
for eternity