I wish...
I'd have known the little boy you once were, sandwiched between mom and dad, somewhere holy like church. Bet you were adorable in your suit, hands folded and following Mom in the communion line. There was no doubt of your faith, it shone in your eyes. You believed in God, your parents and the Incredible Hulk.
I grin thinking about the freckled face, the glints of mischief. Perhaps you slept in Spiderman pajamas, and were missing front teeth. Afraid to go to sleep because the empty space under the bed wanted to eat you. It tried to before.
Came to life and gobbled you whole, and it's probably thinking to do it again, any minute now. So there you are trying not to be afraid and clutching poor Teddy for dear life-but too filled with pride to call Dad, because you want him to be proud of his big man.
I would've loved you as a misunderstood teen; gawky, sensitive but toughening up. You collected piercings and a bad haircut, achne. Preoccupied with inappropriate daydreams about the girl next door who’d just moved in. But girls terrified you, and you just never knew if you’d get past the "getting past it" point, but oh! you were so willing to try.
Embittered about life at such a young age, never could prove to Dad just what a big man you became, because the bastard up and died unexpectantly, and you're pissed off about it, pissed off at yourself. Angry, saddened and full of regret.
Didn't hurt to spend more time at the bar, or a friend's, or some girl's house. You fumbled for compassion in art and music, became obsessed with full moons, vestal virgins and black magic. . .
. . .and the mysterious road ahead.
But you learned to deal with the frustration, the loss. The on-again off-again relationship with Mom. She's too distant and you worry and you make yourself believe there's something you can do to make her happy, or take away the pain but there isn't. Nothing does.
Frustrated the presence of God isn't around though not surprised, you're pissed off about that too.. That’s why writing became so important, right? For a while writing summoned something beautiful and tragic. Because you've lost your faith and nothing but poetry can be true.
You're older now, not quite sure of your strut, or maybe just more realistic. It's more mature women with manners and confidence to take control when necessary; in bed or in life. And it’s all love, every woman you touch- yes?
Yes. Whether for sport or for keeps- if you see them again or not, you loved every one of them with every bit of who you are, and this next one will be who you’ve always wanted. Perfect doesn’t exist, so you’ll be satisfied with one who’s easy to get along with, decent in bed, and will make a good mother, someday...and you'll go back to the church you grew up in, and you'll take communion with a little of that same awe you had as a child.
You'll raise your kids in this church, just like you were raised, teach them not to be afraid of anything, especially empty spaces under the bed.
Adding your comment:
Oh, and "acne."(parag. 4)
ss...David 
Wow, I want to buy your book when you write it because this is phenomenal prose here 
