He’s tall, and easily towers over me. When we hug, my face is usually in his chest. Unless he picks me up, so my feet can’t touch the floor, so I can wrap my arms around his neck, and bury my face into the curved crook of his shoulder. He smells like the cologne he always wears, the one that lingers on his jackets every time he lets me borrow them. When I see him after a long weekend, I can run up to him and jump onto him. He’ll catch me, as my legs wrap around his waist, so we’re just koalas. Just like the piggy back rides he gives me because he knows my legs are so much shorter than his, and keeping up with his strides is difficult.
He’s strong. He doesn't know his own strength. I can pull up my sleeves and my shirt to show bruises he has left me. Bruises made with pure intentions. He doesn't realize I’m small, and he’s so much stronger. The center of my chest holds a light purple bruise where I held my hands tangled close to my chest with anxiety and he held me close. Every time I shivered with fear, he pulled me closer, my bony hands pressing hard into my chest. My arm holds 4 to 5 circular bruises, perfectly identical to his finger tips; I’m clumsy and so is he, but he catches me before I fall, even if his bright smile was the cause of my loss of balance. My body holds purple and blue stories, our stories.
He’s talented. He can play any instrument you put into his hands. His ability to produce symphonies without a moments hesitation, to make a piece that sounds like a classical piece without having to pause is more than outstanding. Even so, without the instrument, he still has his voice. The voice that can effortlessly fit any song he so desires it to. Take away his voice, he can still dance. For such a tall person with such a clumsy nature, graceful dancing isn’t something I associated him with, but how ecstatic I was to be proven wrong; first from seeing it, then from him asking me to dance with him. Take away that, he can act. With his light brown eyes alone hold a story deeper and more intricate than anyone could ever dream of. He’s taken all of this, and has yet to take notice of how truly gifted he is. He’s an angel who sees himself as just a human amongst human, unknowingly beautiful. Unknowingly transcendent.
He’s caring. He will drop everything if you need him to. He’d run through rose gardens barefoot, he’d crawl through broken glass, if it meant he could make me feel better. Even when I mask it with a smile, he sees the smile doesn’t reach my eyes. My laugh can only be loud when it’s genuine, small laughs give me away so easily. These walls I put up to hide from everyone are paper thin to him,but that’s okay. When everyone is away, when he knows I feel comfortable, he starts a full investigation to figure out who or what is bothering me. To him, there’s nothing too small. If it’s bothering me, it’s bigger than anything. He’d sit with me forever, hugging me, playing with my hair, doing anything I needed if it meant he could make me smile again.
He’s smart. When he works, you can see the gears turning inside of his mind. But just like me, frustration consumes him sometimes. His normal smile fades, and a scowl replaces it. His fists ball up as he looks for something to hit. Whether it’s a chair or a wall, I can’t stop him. I can hold his arm as he gets angry, and I can treat his wounds after, but I can never stop him. He’s a volcano, as am I. Sometime’s we explode, and we can’t stop ourselves. His anger doesn’t scare me because I think it will be turned towards me. His anger scares me because it will hurt him. I am too small and weak to stop him. Once his eyes fall upon me, his angers slowly seeps away, and his fists slowly uncoil, and lets me hold his hand, and once he’s calmed down, I am so happy to return everything he’s done for me.
He’s not perfect. He’s aggressive even when happy. He can’t control his anger. He trusts too easily. He’s not perfect at all.
He’s not perfect, but he’s trying.
And that’s perfect for me.