An Open Letter to the Love of my Life

The backspace key
puts me in mind of how
I would talk to you
if I couldn't erase my words;
I would look like a fool,
mouth opening and closing--
a swinging door in a strong breeze.

I should not apologize for my brain chemistry
but find myself doing so anyways
because I watch your eyes when
you register my face and it's been
"a bad day,"
how you seem to crumble with me
out of empathy and a desire
to build me up again from the ground.

How many times have you seen me burn down?
I imagine you with ash in your palms,
looking up at a blue sky and saying
"Honey, we all incinerate,"
before holding me away from the wind
and talking me solid again.

If only I had ten-hundred ways
to thank you.