I wonder how he feels when the sun warms his eyelids at daybreak.
What does he say to talk his feet into giving the floor another day to be graced by his presence?

I want to know his conversations with the Lord, eavesdropping, just to catch a snippet of whatever pulls him through adversities.

What does his heart feel like? I imagine it big and damaged, like an antique vase that couldn't quite be thrown away because it holds so much sentimental value, but whose cracks can never be repaired. I want to feel those cracks.

I wonder what he daydreams of. What floats into his mind when everything is still? What does he over think about when he thinks no one is watching?

As he retires into a bed that is not his own, how does he reflect on his day? Remaining ready to face tomorrow as if fearless. I feel his fear, but never see it. Rarely he'll let me hear it in his voice.

So many questions that I wonder. I silence them. I may not be able to love him, but I will always respect his story. I will love his strength.