He is gentle.
There are no sharp words
grazing over veins,
no daggers from
the roof of his mouth
to beat me down.
There are only pieces
he sees without trying.
There is only compassion
when I’ve broken down.
I am a storm. This he knows.
Still, he calls me his hero
like there isn’t a fracture from which
light won’t emit for him,
as though I am finally
a shelter to give a drifting heart
a home.
He is strong. A blue calm sea
of endless patience in his eyes,
steady hands capable of
soothing churning clouds
within this ripped up soul.
There is no belittling tone
pushing me over the edge,
no ignorance to waves drowning me.
There is only the way
he holds on to me.
I am cracked. This he accepts.
Still, he brings me in from the world,
enraptured in simplicity,
as though flaws are normal,
scars are distant fragments.
Perhaps in him I can find
a place to fall.
Perhaps in my own shards
there is light.
He is a haven. Entangled in him
is a safety I’ve never known.
Long days pretending to be strong
end unraveled in his arms
and even when I feel I’ve got
no pieces left at all, when
the gales begin to howl,
thunder grumbles,
he brings me into his walls
where once I would have been
stranded.
I am unruly. This he knows.
Still, he calls me his angel
like maybe there’s hope for me
after all, as though soaring through
hurricanes with battered wings
hasn’t dimmed the stars in my eyes,
that maybe hearts of diamond dust
can be swept away once more.
