In the quiet hours, I see you fully—
not polished, but real, edges raw.
Your words sometimes cut too sharp,
your mornings heavy with doubt,
yet I lean closer,
because that fire proves you are alive.
Flaws weave through us like stubborn roots—
forgotten promises, long silences,
habits that snag and pull.
I do not erase them.
I learn their shape.
Love is not a clean line.
It is the whole shore, tide-washed and cracked,
and I gather every grain of sand.
When doubt clouds your eyes or walls rise high,
I wait outside, steady,
knowing the same heart holds me gently at night.
You are not marble to worship.
You are living sculpture, chipped by time,
and every mark catches the light differently.
I choose you—flawed, flickering, brilliant—
exactly as you are.
My heart keeps choosing,
simple as breathing.
There is no you without me.
TenPastTen 
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