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.