“I’ve written you sixty-seven love poems.
Here’s another one for you.
But really, for me.
These poems are the candles that I light
with the fire you have ignited in me.
I place this candle here and another there
so even if the stars have argued with the moon
and are sulking away in a corner,
you can still find your way to me.
Sixty-eight poems now. What
does the future hold for us?
Joy? Disappointment? Gentle caresses? And subtle neglect?
I hope the good is more than the bad. Much more.
For what is the point of love
if by lighting these candles
our own flame loses its brightness?
I know the good is more than the bad.
I cannot wait to write you sixty-nine.”