I love to write.
But I fear -
yes it is a fear -
that my writing is in danger.
The danger of exclusivity.

I don’t mean to write only of love;
I long to express
my feelings of joy when I make a 3- point shot,
my feelings of sadness when my grandmother died,
or even the sheer hilarity of Wayne’s World.

I don’t mean to limit myself
to the topic of infatuation.
I’d love to write in regard
to the time my hard drive crashed,
or about my favorite kind of cheese.

But she makes it too easy.
I could write about her forever:
her hair,
her humor,
her constant understanding,
her laughter,
her smile,
her uncanny ability to call at just the right time.

Just when I think I’ve found another topic,
her beauty,
and her personality
creep onto the paper.
And, if you can’t tell,
it seems I’ve done it again.