the greatest testament

to the way you love me is this:
I, an ever-obliged poet,
have never felt compelled to say
thank you.
 
you are Samwise Gamgee,
except you follow me into the gloom
with no pretentious oaths to bind you.
you offer your arm so nonchalantly
I do not notice until I’m trembling
how far I’ve let you come along.
you love me like Mount Doom
is a sunny stroll through the park.
 
you are Sirius Black,
shrugging off my deepest shame
and asking what’s for dinner.
you are the antidote to a tied tongue,
all compassion and humor.
you shapeshift, stealthily, smiling,
and I no longer feel like something 
in need of fixing.
 
you are Will Turner,
and I, having long lacked the luxury
of choice or being rescued,
schemed fruitlessly to free myself
until you made me believe in a nobler love,
one that may yet move me to raise a sword.
on that day, amid the battle, back to back,
you will rally behind my brash and bold.
 
I know you, my dear escapist.
you dream of open seas and rum,
and I wish for our tale to end in the Shire,
lilting theme song, rocking chairs and all.
 
but even a glimpse of you
once every decade is preferable
to you dipping beyond that veil,
so I will not be greedy.
 
even if I cannot keep you close,
I intend to give you a thank you
worthy of your love:

we shall bicker about books
until the end of our days.