He is not loud with wanting.

He does not rush the door of my life

like conquest is love.

He knocks—

and waits.

He has made peace with his shadows.

They follow him quietly now,

well-fed, well-named,

no longer biting at the heels of women.

He listens the way elders listen—

with his whole body.

He does not flinch when my past enters the room

wearing all its years.

He pours another cup.

He knows my age is a crown,

not an apology.

That every line on my face

is a sentence I survived.

He reads me slowly.

He is strong enough to be gentle,

soft enough to be honest,

wise enough to know

that love is not possession—

it is presence.

He does not ask me to be smaller.

He stands tall beside me.

When I rise,

he rises too—

not to lead, not to follow,

but to walk.

He laughs like a man who understands

that joy is holy

and grief is a language,

and both deserve respect.

He desires me

without trying to own me.

Protects me

without trying to cage me.

Chooses me

without trying to save me.

When I rest, he keeps watch.

When I speak, he believes me.

When I am quiet,

he knows I am still powerful.

He feels like peace

with hands and breath.

Like home that does not lock the door.

Like love that says,

I see you. Stay as you are.