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I stared at it for several minutes before understanding that I love seeing my name transformed into something that belongs on your body.

Wear it whenever you want.

You don’t need to wear it publicly to prove anything to me. You already chose me out loud when it was far more difficult than putting DECKER across your back.

I want you to have it because the thought of you wearing my name makes something primitive and embarrassingly satisfied rise inside me.

The cropped hem was Marisol’s decision.

I fully support it.

The glass sculpture came from Fragile, the studio that made the marbles from the rehearsal dinner. I walked past the store and thought of you before I saw anything inside. The name reminded me of everything people have called delicate after forcing it through fire.

The artist asked me to describe you.

I told her you are blush, gold, crystals, sharp edges, impossible standards, and enough courage to turn fragility into something nobody should mistake for weakness.

She created the rest.

The dress belongs inside your boutique. Place it wherever it can catch the most light.

I asked her to engrave the base because those words belonged to you before either of us understood how difficult living them would become.

Take up space, Charm.

Take all of it.

I look toward the sculpture and imagine sunlight moving through the glass inside her shop.

The pen continues.

You sent me honesty in your last letter.

I want to send you romance.

This is the area where my education becomes dangerous.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning asked, “How do I love thee?” and then attempted to measure love through depth, breadth, height, breath, smiles, tears, and the reach of her soul.

I don’t believe love can be measured that way.

If I tried, I would measure mine through smaller things.

I love you in every book I reach for because I already know which sentences would make you argue. I love you in coffee I still prepare too sweet because my hands remember yours. I love you in the first second after something makes me laugh because my instinct remains to find your face and see whether you thought it was funny too.

I love you whenever snow hits Milwaukee because you would complain about your hair before stepping into it anyway.

I love you in every mirror I pass because there was a night when you trusted my eyes more than your reflection, and I have never forgotten what it cost you to keep looking.

I love you in anger, which seems unfair.

I love you while remembering the study. I love you while holding every letter where you finally saw what silence did to me. I love you when protecting myself requires distance from you and when that distance becomes the thing hurting me most.

Browning tried to measure love because naming its dimensions gave language to something too large to hold.

Mine refuses measurement.

It exists everywhere you are missing.