To the Woman Who Named Herself the Moon

Joy.

Joy is the world we use to describe the whole world of sensations you stir up in my soul. It fills my chest with back flips and confetti when you walk into work. Reminds me of those childhood friendships where you and your pals had all sorts of secrets that those silly adults were too distracted to see. It’s a trickster’s joy in seeing life’s little winks.

It is unfortunately rare to have the great fortune of meeting someone such as yourself - who is striving to do their best, which is, in a way, OUR best. The big Us. Someone who longs so forcefully for this perverted system to be inverted that they construct a new one out of fresh starts and failed attempts and almost theres and woodworking tools and techniques drawn from memories and hardworking hands and holy blood and healing ceremonies. And heartfelt tears - the real ones, whose streaks down your cheeks show nothing of how far a heart can fall.

These are the true diamonds in the rough, my dear.

I believe in you so very much. I believe in you the way a hungry deer believes in spring, the way a bird trusts its wings, the way a maple drops its leaves. I used to not believe in anything at all.

I need you to believe in yourself, too.

I would be proving myself a foolish man if I though I had any advice to offer you. Instead, I’ll share my hopes for you:

I hope you laugh more than you weep.

I hope you are hugged very often.

I hope you feel - on some level I lack the vocabulary to describe - settled.

I hope life’s external mirrors show the wonder and wilderness inside you, that you may see your beautiful face full of joy.

Most sincerely,

Roman

P.S. I would not have made it through those long work weeks without you. It always gave me something to look forward to. Thank you for that.