a moment

surreal

there is sweetness in the silence,
her head lays upon my chest, with my heartbeat her lullaby,
ensconced in a simplistic intimacy

but simple now endures an aura of complexity from a past still only intimated through heavily-veiled ambiguity—its details omitted, but the scars of which are often visible within the subtlest interactions

she can be troubled by the presence of love freely given,
desiring what is pure, yet resisting its authenticity

with many, I have feigned openness through active misdirection,
an attempt to clothe my own scars—scars often reopened when left vulnerable,
and yet, she—in a manner, unique to her—strips me of my defenses,
around her, I cannot help but “feel,”
and as her pillow, with my defense mechanisms defeated, all I can do is “feel”

I “feel” her body slack; yielding—vulnerable

I “feel” trusted, knowing that being vulnerable requires struggle with a past unbeknownst to me

I “feel” honored as she allows herself to be comforted by my love; both acknowledging its authenticity and affirming its value

I “feel” loved, knowing that she, in that moment, is accepting me wholly

what a privilege!

the floodgates of my heart burst open, emotions cascade unabated. exhibited not with shouts, or any noise at all—but rather, absolute silence

I lay still and quiet

words would not suffice, for they would only serve to establish false boundaries for emotions which exist within an incomprehensible beauty—purer than pure

—emotions that emanate both within and between

my breathes are deep, controlled
—content.
—grateful
why am I so blessed to reside within this moment?

past suffering is forgotten,
thoughts of futures possible are dismissed—abandoned,
they are unimportant as I focus on what is present—what is “now,”
there is only the moment:

beauty

love

pure

…and as her eyes slowly open, and she looks up at me with a content glaze; residing in the peaceful in-between of awake and asleep—I smile,
she smiles back, and she says something: “hi there”
I take one last deep breathe, and hold her tight for one last instant
—so as to both hold onto and punctuate the moment

and now: I rest in hope

hope that I can offer my best—to be a man deserving,
though, also accepting that no man could be. It is impossible

—she shows me grace

and yet, I strive nonetheless—I am compelled
for that is what love, in its purest form, requires

hope to enjoy similar moments,
none the same, but each pure—beautiful,
each the manifestation of a shared love

and with “hope,” and in “hope,” I still rest

I must

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