To the Woman Who Has Lived
I do not crave perfection,
I crave the softness that comes
after years of sharpening.
The laugh lines that whisper
I have survived beauty’s tyranny,
the pause before speaking
that tastes of patience.
Your hands,
not untouched by time,
but marked by it
are a map I want to learn by heart.
If this is love
let it be slow,
let it be seasoned,
let it arrive like autumn:
radiant,
weathered,
and utterly undeniable.