a letter

dear mr. schroeder,

you are 23.and this day is all yours.
all month, you have been saying,
"i don't have a birthday. what are you talking about?"
you little humble man, you.
thank you for making me complete.
thank you for loving me.
and thank you for showing me how to truly care for someone.
thank you for driving me to the e.r. yesterday
and then having to be at work super late. 
i love the way you look at me.
i love the way you constantly kiss my forehead.
and i know you love me when you let me tie your hands up and tickle you to near-death.
you came into my life when i had nearly lost all hope.
and i couldn't ever forget the way you looked at me across the table at olive garden.
i will always remember those torn-apart skate shoes, 
your lovely hazel eyes,
and your pearly whites smiling at me...
all on our first date.

i will always treasure after the second date, 
calling up my sister crying saying, 
"i think i am in love with him.
i think he is the one.
i am scared.
but i know this is right." 
she comforted me the way nobody else would.

i hope the home-made cheesecake is everything you remember it being.
i also hope the customized puzzle of us is hard for you to complete.
and i really hope those camouflage seat covers fit your truck seats.

i love you more than i can put into words.
and this birthday is going to be remarkable.
you and me. makin history.
{not babies}

happy birthday, mr. schroeder.
lets rock and roll.

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