He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.  But it took me time to realize it.

We met exactly a year after I ended my three month marriage.  After getting drunk and crying to Radiohead’s Creep at a town Christmas party it finally sunk in that I’d decided to spend my life with someone who made me feel alone and miserable.

My marriage confused most people.  How could I get married when there were so many red flags?  Why didn’t I walk away sooner?

Our love was a love of extremes.  When it was good – it was amazing.  He made me feel like our love was above the rest.  Like I was to be admired and worshipped.  His wit was sharp as a knife.  He excited me.  

He also knew where to cut me.  When it was bad I would dunk my head underwater in the bathtub and dream about not coming up for air.  He made me feel like a monster.  He made me doubt my best intentions and look at my past with shame.  He made me afraid.  All of my actions were dictated by how I thought he might react.  

When I walked away I had no idea how hard it would be.  What followed was a year of slow and painful healing.  A fight to reclaim myself.

And then he came along.

We met in the little French village where my parents live and his parents have a vacation home.  I’d heard about how smart and handsome he was.  He’d seen a picture of me and swooned.

When we first spoke something within me responded.  He was so polite, kind, and had a quiet confidence that was more intimidating than any loud ego.

Over the next few weeks he showed up at my door.  Came over to make eggnog.  Asked to go for a walk.  Then asked me, in front of both of our families, out on a lunch date. We ended our date sneaking into a castle.  It was romantic but I was still unsure.  I was still picking up my pieces and he seemed so complete.

When he dropped me off at the airport, he started to drive away, then returned and ran out of the car and back to me in the security line for one more kiss.  

We kept in touch over the next few months, and I distanced myself, I let him know I still had work to do.  He gave me space but let me know he wasn’t ready to let go.

When I moved back to Canada after a year in Europe he eventually followed.  He defined persistence.  And after every romantic gesture possible, and making me feel beautiful in my ugliest moments, I let go of all of all fear and loved him.  

Two years later I never want to stop loving him.  This love is good.  This love is fearless.

Most of my wounds have healed, and those that are still there he kisses goodnight.

He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.