The Sight of You

I am sitting here, just watching you exist, and I feel the phantom pressure of your hands upon my wrists.

 You are not doing anything grand—just sitting, just being—But in this quiet moment, you are everything worth seeing.

I look at your shoulders, the weight in your frame, A man who has carried the world and survived the flame. I am open, nervous, shaking, and unmasked in the light, finding my only peace in the fact that you are in my sight.

But then you find a reason to laugh, a low, honest sound, and I feel the last of my heavy defenses hit the ground.

Your calmness is your strength, a quiet, seasoned law, which holds me in a stillness I have never felt before. You do not have to shout to prove you are in command. The steady peace of your unmoving hands rules me.

The strength in your hands is a fortress, steady and wide, the only place left where my soul does not have to hide. I am softened and silent by the leveled way you breathe, giving me the only permission I ever need to leave—

To leave the fighting, the deciding, the being strong, and sink into the place where I have always belonged. I am trembling with pride, which makes it hard to see. Watching you, and the storm in me finally breaks, A raw, beating pulse that only answers your name.