But, of all the topics closest to his soul, he never wrote about me. Not a single line.

For three years, we lived together. We shared all my firsts: first real kiss, first apartment, first time I made love.

All these crucial milestones in my life. You would think thoughts of me would be brimming over in his work. I wanted to be the Matilda to his Pablo Neruda.

But the years went on. And nary a mention of me anywhere.

One day, at some ungodly hour of the morning while I stared at the stars on a balcony far up in the sky and he shared a bottle of red wine with a man from Brazil, I had the sudden urge to know.

I wanted to know why I wasn't special enough, why he didn't love me enough to write a poem about me.

I wanted to know why I wasn't his muse. Why I didn't inspire him.

So I asked him. Actually, more blurted it out at him to be more exact.

"Why don't you ever write about me?"

He looked at me with disbelief in his eyes. As if I just asked him the most insane question in existence.

Then responded: "You're far too emotional."

I was heart broken. Spirit broken. I was sharing my life with a poet who had no words for me.

I think I was looking for some validation. Some little morsel to feed upon ... to let me know that he cared. That I was more cherished than all the women who had come before me.

But, the truth was, I wasn't. He couldn't write poems about me because poetry is driven by emotion. Love, hate, anger, pride, envy.

He channeled every bit of his soul into his words - so there was no soul left for me.

Tonight, I had a sore throat. So, after work, I went upstairs to lay down. Jake decided to make me dinner. He was making stuffed peppers because he knows I like them.

While I was at work, he spent the afternoon looking at a trillion different recipes online. He never made them before so, he took the best parts of each of them, and created his own recipe.

I like that. Taking the best parts of each to make it perfect for me.

It's kinda romantic.

As I was snug in bed in my pajamas watching TV, Jake came upstairs to check on me. I hinted (ever so subtly) that I needed medicine for my sore throat. And that I would appreciate if someone (aka JAKE) would go to the store and get me some.

"Take note", he says, "That you hint for something and I immediately do it."

And, as he runs off to the store to buy some sore throat medicine, I did. Take note, that is.

When he gets back, he starts to make himself dinner (he doesn't like stuffed peppers) ... and he begins to clean the dirty dishes.

"I'll do them", I say.

"No", he responds. "I'll do them, you go back and lie down."

After dinner when my tummy is bursting full with the best stuffed pepper I've ever had, I hop online to check my email. And, for some reason,I suddenly think about my ex-boyfriend who wrote such beautiful poetry but never about me.

I thought about him not because I miss him. Or wonder about him. Or even envy him anymore.

But because I'm thankful that he never wrote about me. Because, maybe if he did, I would still be with him.

Jake may never write as well as he did. Or dazzle me with eloquent prose and shiny metaphors.

But he is living, breathing love poetry. Words made flesh. When he brushes my hair from my face when I cry or kisses that tiny spot on the back of my neck before we go to sleep - he's saying more about love than a thousand poets ever could.

When I dated the poet, I was looking for grand gestures of undying love. I wanted him to stand on a bridge and scream to the world that I was his everything.

But sometimes - when the love is real -the screaming part isn't necessary. Sometimes, you just need someone to make you stuffed peppers, do the dirty dishes, or run to the store and get cough medicine to let you know how much you mean to them.

Yeah, Ivan, you were right. I am far too emotional. And proud of it.

Thank you for noticing.

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