Society gives us no term to
identify who we are to each other.
To those who I cautiously keep at a distance,
you are a roommate.
To those who assume,
you are my friend, my good friend, my best friend,
but my friend.
To those we bring close
you are my partner in the business of commitment,
but even that does you nor us
justice.
The feds forbid you from being called my husband.
Spouse irks the IRS.
The church frowns on lover.
I harbor significant distaste for significant other.
But with every goodnight kiss,
with every foot rub, with every
anniversary surpassing and outlasting our easily-named
counterparts,
I, the poet, the worshiper of words,
understand that no series of letters and sounds
could adequately encompass what we have made,
that no imperfect utterance could capture
or define what you are to me.

© Bryan Borland