What is love if not the acceptance of imperfection?

Because of everything that you describe as wounds of shame I lick them as the pride of survival.

All that you murmur in the solitude of the night I keep it between the pages of my favourite book.

Because My Love, don’t you see that to love is not the encounter of equals but of unequals who need and understand each other. 

It’s the intertwining of hands that say: “you, I understand and you, I want” 

You can accuse me of all the capital sins that my arms will still catch you when you fall.

Because what is love if not the acceptance of the roller coaster that we are, the kiss on the wrinkles, the laugh of the tears and the sitting with you on the sidewalk while the silence overruns your voices. 

And it’s that I don’t need to demand your attention while your skin still remembers 

my heartbeat. 

Because love isn’t that I must say your name three times for your eyes to remember that I’m around, but the exhale and inhale of knowing that without speaking it, without mentioning it, you know that I’m always here.

TA.