All his edges

I love him
with a tenderness that startles me,
a love that knows the shape of his laughter,
the warmth of his voice,
the quiet way he looks at me
as if I am the one safe place
in a world that keeps slipping through his hands.

I love the whole of him,
not the polished version,
not the tidy one,
but the real man
with the soft eyes and the tired heart,
the flaws that make him human,
the shadows that make him brave.

I love him even in the moments
when he loses himself,
when the world grows heavy
and he fades into the slow drift of his own battles.
Not because it is easy
but because I have seen the gentleness
that lives underneath the storm.

And yes, I love the parts of him
that others might turn away from,
the bruised places,
the habits that cling to him,
the pieces he thinks are unlovable.
To me, they are simply pages
in a story he has not finished writing yet.

But what I do not love
is the ache of missing him
when he is right beside me,
the quiet hours that stretch too far,
the loneliness that slips between us
like a closed door.

Still,
when he whispers
“Do not give up on me baby,”
something blooms in me,
a hope so gentle
I cannot bring myself to let it go.

Because I have loved him
in ways he will never fully understand,
with patience,
with truth,
with the kind of devotion
that lives in the bones
long after reason gives up.

If he ever rises into the man
I know he could be,
if he ever reaches toward the light
instead of the dark,
I would run to him
as if my heart had been waiting
its whole life.

But even now,
even here,
even in the half light of maybe,
I love him.
Not perfectly.
Not blindly.
But deeply,
honestly,
with all the quiet courage
my soul can give.