I love you 

not because you are whole, 

or unafflicted. 

It’s not by denying sorrow 

that I find beauty in this world; 

but by witnessing 

your desperate strokes 

in this ocean of change. 

The disorienting doubt, 

the smooth shore of clarity. 

Being half-drowned in pain, 

lost by grief or the flimsy joy 

that comes with the sun. 

I've felt compassion 

by carrying you outside, 

vulnerable, messed up, 

holding your death weight on my back, 

for you to submerge the next day. 

I've been humbled 

by the trembling in each hug, 

the uncertainty in every kiss, 

yet the fierce resolve to be here. 

I've come to understand 

we do not choose to love, 

but are inspired to do so; 

and you have inspired me, 

to love you. 

No, not by your virtues, 

but by the grace 

with which you struggle.

It has been by what you call 

your futile attempts, 

that I've been drawn 

to care, to hold, to love. 

So, how could I not love you? 

The one that has given himself completely. 

How could I deny you? 

The one that protects through an open heart. 

How could I forget you?

The one that doesn’t yield to time.