Herschel Yaakov

It is nice to be loved.

He calls me pretty girl- not from any attempt to charm.
I thought so at first- but after nearly a year, he still calls me it all the time-
during fights, when we're whispering in movies, when he's holding me close-
it's something sweet and wonderful
and I like it, quite a lot.

He smiles whenever he sees me-
like a little boy at his first birthday party
delightedly clapping his hands when he spies
the artfully iced cake.

And when he stands behind me as I look in the mirror,
criticizing my flaws and curves and posing to see
if I might look okay, today-
he tells me I am more than a Monet-
the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

And as we sit together, eating Chinese,
watching Simpsons in his room-
it's lovely just to have his arm around me
and to be able to rest my head on his shoulder-
we have been through so much,
so much together-

-I remember when I was crying for hours and couldn't stop,
and fear was solid in my veins
he picked me up and took me away
and fed me chocolate and TV until I could sleep and
dream and rest-

-And when he feels like everything he does has been
useless, or unappreciated- when he thinks these months
have been a waste- I kiss him and I tell him that
I am proud of him- and that he is good and strong and brave-
I run my fingers through his hair-

and now it's like I can see the world through
a stained glass window-
everything colorful and bright and soft.

Not everyone understands
but it's okay-
Because when I put my head against his chest
and count double time with his heartbeat
I know that the days are ours to hold
and the hours are ours to conquer.

We can do anything- anything.

My Superman and I.