Your body was a road map,
of all the places I'd never been to,
of all the places I wish I'd remember
and of all the places I wish I'd forget.

Each freckle was a monument.

Your inner arms were my block,
gang sign graffiti and the signature click of marble stones knocking against each other,
nostalgia.

But I could never tend enough gardens or build enough playgrounds to make your chest my home.

It's said that love is supposed to be messy.
Chaotic,
thunderous fights and passionate love making;
you're supposed to be a disaster.
To me,
you are the first streak of sunlight pouring through my window on to messy bed sheets.
You are the steam rising from hand-painted teacups on cold mornings.
You are the sigh that escapes from deep within my chest when this feeling catches me off guard.
You are snow falling in the cone of light under a street lamp;
the serenity that lives in the glow of a winter storm in the middle of the night.
The last note on a perfectly composed symphony.
You are not a catastrophe.
You are all those beautiful feelings that remind me for the first time that life is so worth living.

When it feels like you no longer have the strength,
I will cradle you, wait patiently for you to fall asleep,
whisper prayers around the scars left behind by the blade of your father's tongue;
you can count on me to envelope myself around you ,
you will never feel alone.

When your ears ring out with the cries of your mother
and fear lies at the base of your spine,
waiting to watch you crumble
I will make sure that my voice be
soft, so when you fall
it can gather your heart in satin and place it in my breast pocket;
I will make sure the rhythm of mine reminds yours how to keep beating.

Until you are able to rebuild yourself
I'll remind you that our bones do not stop dancing even when they have been buried or left in ashes
and the garden bloom on your chest only needs sunlight
to break free from its concrete tomb.

When your hands, callused from years of holding on to caustic ropes of fleeting happiness,
tuck themselves away in the pockets of your favourite jumper
I will always be willing to caress the chapped lines of your fate, your palms;
of your cheek, at the place where your lips curl upward
I am constantly reminded that there is still salvation in your smile,
hope brewing,
more serene than the sun's first kiss with the horizon
and buried underneath the surface of your skin
perfect imperfections, lines, van gogh etched into your pores
each one is a masterpiece

I will open myself up for you.
Surrender that broken vessel to me ,
I will care for your wounded heart and those knees,
bruised from the years you spent believing in something that could not prove itself.
I promise
to love you
even if you are only just learning to be whole.