There are a couple of different types of lists that can help with manifesting someone into your life. One option would be to write out what you're looking for in a partner. Note: It's best to focus on not only the external characteristics but the internal as well. Most importantly, focus on the feeling. 
One of the tasks is describing you—your exterior and interior—and showing the world who I believe you to be. Easy enough task but I recall an email of yours,
Jim, I am not the woman that you think I am. I am in fact my own biggest disappointment. When you said to me, the last time we spoke, that you has told Karl “I was your perfect woman,” that scared me. More than scared me – it brutally jolted my viscera. And then, to read you, for you to think I could have actually written poetry of that caliber. C’mon, you should know me better than that; know my limitations better than that?
So there’s that – I could never live up to your idealization of me.
As I’ve told you, I couldn’t take my eyes off you when we attended that Brahms concert, you with your rotten husband and me with my harridan wife. Your tall, lean, athletic body swayed with the beauty of the music and I was captivated by how stunningly gorgeous you were. Yeah, not a body that’s hot by pervy standards—the compact butt that sits atop your long, slender legs isn’t usually what you see in porn and I can guarantee no one’s distracted by your tiny tits—but it entranced me all evening.
Is your chocolate-brown hair gray now? I assume yes, just as I assume you have kept it short-ish, not a bob but just touching your shoulders.
Since no one knew our secret, I heard numerous guys growl about how much they’d love to fuck you (oh, I was so tempted to say, “The best sex you’ll ever have!”).
My credo has always been that in order to be in a long-term relationship, my partner has to posses an intellect that not only matches my own but challenges mine. In my 62 years, yours is one of the few that has met that burden, whether friends or lovers, the number of them wouldn’t fill one hand. You are so cultured, so massively well-read (I’d expect no less from a Princeton grad) and completely generous with your insight and healing words. That generosity extends to the entire world around you and I was uplifted watching you during the few interactions you had with my kids. And when you gave me $800 to help me cover the earnest payment on my house? I still cry about that. There are too many examples to list here. Your reputation among our peers and colleagues in Pagosa Springs was all about your compassion, empathy, generosity—and of course your wit, your dulcet laugh, and the radiance of your big, goofy grin.
I modeled Emma’s personality (she one of the protagonists in the novel I can’t sell) on you.
It might seem as though this task is complete but I suspect more will be revealed, in dribs and drabs, as I continue on with this journal. Nevertheless, I hope you appreciated this rough start to my description of you. I just wish I could say it as beautifully as Charles Baudelaire:
Mother of memories, absolute mistress,
in you my pleasure is my only task:
not to forget the form of a caress,
the dying fire and the alluring dark —
Mother of memories, absolute mistress!
Evenings illustrated by living coals
and evenings on the balcony, pink mist
rising, your soft breast, your gentle heart,
while we rehearsed the imperishable words —
Evenings illustrated by living coals.
How brilliant the sunsets, how warm the air,
how huge the sky: the size of our own souls.
Holding you, most loved — no, revered!
I could almost smell the fragrance of your blood —
How brilliant the sunsets, how warm the air!
The night solidified into a wall,
and my eyes had to guess where yours would be
as I drank in your breath: nectar! venom!
and your feet lay still in my harmless hands:
The night solidified into a wall.
I know the art of conjuring up delight,
and I relive my past buried in your lap;
for beauty languorous as yours recurs
only in your loved body, your loving heart;
I know the art of conjuring up delight.
Those endless kisses, promises, perfumes:
is it forbidden to have them back again
out of the dark, like the sun rising new
out of its purgation in the sea?
O endless kisses, promises, perfumes!
Translated by Richard Howard (1982)