When first he set eyes upon you,
you were perfect; a warm light,
drawing him inside, no moth
to a flame analogy – for no one
could ever be destroyed
by entering the citadel of you,
determinedly prising a lock
open, a way into your heart,
though fires rage there, it is true,
deep below the surface so calm.
And when time passed, as it must
for all good men who breathe love,
much more was observed: the dust
unaddressed on your mantlepiece,
a flaw in the skin, a nervous tick,
the tendency to falter before a kiss,
fearful of what others said and did.
And yet. And yet. These things
did not make him love you any less
but rather more, being who you are.