Serenity in His Eyes
I made a mess of my evening—
a little too much laughter,
a little too much wine,
but he never called it foolish.
He just smiled,
soft and certain,
and said,
“That's what going out is for.”
There is no shame in his presence,
only safety—
like warm blankets pulled high
in the quiet of winter.
He woke without sleep
to wait by the belt where strangers' bags pass by,
and I, tired and crumpled from the sky,
found his arms before I found my suitcase.
He didn’t grumble at traffic,
or groan at parking fees.
He showed up.
And he stayed.
There were tunnels and wrong turns,
a city that refused to make space for us.
Still—he never raised his voice.
Serenity lives in his bones,
and in his eyes—
fields of green dusted with gold.
I see the quiet answer
to every question I’ve been afraid to ask
within every look from them.
I’ve been loved before,
but never like this—
never in the way that says,
You matter, even your mess.
Evenings with him are
flesh and fire,
but not just that—
they are reverence.
He listens to my body
like it’s telling a sacred story.
There is no performance here.
No proving.
Just the miracle of being known
and still chosen.
When I fall asleep wrapped in him,
I return to the first place I ever felt safe—
long before memory,
before heartbreak,
before I thought love
was something I had to earn.
It feels like coming home,
like exhaling for the first time
in years.
And I wonder—
can something this tender
last forever?
Even if not,
he has reminded me:
I am not too much.
I am not too late.
I am not unlovable.
I am, somehow,
finally,
seen.