Salve Regina.

I want to give you the best of everything that I can offer because you're my Queen, because you do everything and feel it so much even if I think it's wrong, and because you thrust away any crown that comes your way, preferring to pull strings behind scenes. I want to give you things you would like; no jewels or coronets, my time, scrawlings with pens and pencils, and maybe a cake, or to clean for you. Nursery child offerings appreciated with effusive tones and with little point, a blackmailed gratitude because the gifts are useless, though what I want to show is my service and allegiance, not because I agree with what you think but because I agree with you. You looked happily tired tonight. Your cheeks got redder and redder, and you'd made an effort with purple polyester. You put a hand to my shoulder, when I was feeling shy and shyer, and somehow that made it alright. I need to perfect the art of silence around you, usually I can do it. I need to stop saying, "that is good" or making value statements about work I've done that demand verification or denial or talking too much, or doing a louder than it needs to be laugh, or flirting. I think that all these things must make me irritating. I don't want to be. I want to be like you and liked by you. I need your value statements because you're what I'm setting my stock by.