It's not the way her voice bursts when we talk sometimes.
It's not the way the softness of her skin causes me to swoon.
It's not the way her paintings are achingly beautiful.
It's not the way she talks to my fidgeting foot when we're having a tough time.
It's not the way she drives hours and hours and hours to see me.
It's not the way she left me while there was still something to salvage.
It's not the way her many-colored hair falls around her shoulders.

It's not her body, it's not her mind, it's not her heart, it's not her soul.

What it is
is the way
that when she tells me
that now she's a Red Sox fan
it touches something so deep inside me
that I sob openly
and so loudly
that we miss the turn
off the freeway.

What it is
is the way
that when she goes to the place she grew up
and hasn't been in thirteen years
she calls me
and I'm not there
she cries on my answering machine
cries about home and playgrounds and memories
with joy and sorrow and love
and none of the usual fear.

That--that's what it is.

That's what it is.