Everyone knows there is no real thing as poetry, that it is effectively useless, that it fails in the practical like brushing one’s teeth or in stopping a man jumping off from the ledge, but still, during these hospital days, I think that too many are suffering from what is kept within a good poem. I do not know if you write anymore, though I do believe you live poetry: you found your life partner. Each brief punctuation I see is an exclamation, each comma a breath shared.
I am happy, you, that you have managed to find the love of a poem in a real thing, a real poetry in motion, in moving, in the many who have come but have not promised to stay for even the best poem must end.
Your’s does not, really. Congrats on the real thing.