Now it is time to tell you how I like your misspellings, your bad grammar, in your texts.  All your words are spelled correctly when I hear your voice, and you are punctilious in your grammar and diction.  But you do mutter at times, and I give you the benefit of the doubt.  Can I mention that you are funny when you try and when you don't?  Can I tell you how excessively family-oriented that makes me feel?  I have failed to mention how I want to see you in my living room.  Neither are you aware of how much I would like to look into your beady eyes as you are looking into mine, and I especially remember that look of complete vulnerability in your eyes, tinged with surprise, pain, shame, and gratefulness.  I can't tell you that I want to listen to "On My Own" with you, and how good that will make me feel when it has always made me cry before, because "the hopes and fears of all the years are met" in me in that song.  Could you give me a hint?  I have a few things I would like to bring up, and one is an answer to a simple question you asked but I would not answer when I was home at Christmas and you were here.  How I've wondered what your prayers entail.  I want to read aloud with you, because I think you would be very good at it, and I know that I am, when I have a voice.  I want you to share my winter evenings with your homey face and have you help me set up my book shelves and advise me on furniture that would fit up the stairs.  I want you to move onto a boat so I can visit you, and so you can have an excuse to be at my place more often.  I want to serve other people with you.  I want to be outward-focused with you, to know that together we have not just enough, but more than enough, to meet internal and external needs.  I want to see that with you.  I want to ride in your vehicle with blankets and wool socks because the heater doesn't work.  And maybe someday I will want you to put your hand on my back.