Someday I will write my own poems again, but for now, let my friend Emily tell you exactly how I feel today.
by Emily Dickinson
Of all the souls that stand create
I have elected one.
When sense from spirit files away,
And subterfuge is done;
When that which is and that which was
Apart, intrinsic, stand,
And this brief tragedy of flesh
Is shifted like a sand;
When figures show their royal front
And mists are carved away, --
Behold the atom I preferred
To all the lists of clay!
I love you!
"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."