“It’s Neil Gaiman’s birthday today, he’s 54, and he’s waking up at 4:30 in the morning to get on a plane to boston (i just got here) that he just re-scheduled to miss the massive snow-storm supposedly heading into the midwest….just so he doesn’t miss the massive book-and-birthday two day blow-out we have planned.

i don’t know how often i say it, or if i say it enough, or what is or isn’t enough, or where it matters to say it, sometimes.

but i love him, so so much, and the love grows weirder, and deeper, and lighter, and darker and realer with every passing year.

we’re both aging.

i’m seeing new lines in my face and feeling the sagging and loosening of my skin. he’s worried about his silvering hair. it’s a losing battle, if you’re trying to fight time. you have to make love to time, it’s the only way.

i worry about losing him.
he worries about losing me.
i worry about missing him.
he worries that i worry too much.

then we argue. boy, are we fucking married.

here’s what i know:

i love you, neil gaiman, every sag, nose-hair, wrinkle and crevasse.
every missed connection, every misplaced detail, every forgotten promise. it’s fine.

i love the fuck out of you.”