I feel your presence in every sunrise
regardless of our physical proximity.
The way the light begins to brighten
the outermost corner of the darkness
is reminiscent of you,
finding the edges of my sorrow and
leaving light there,
like a gift for spaces too shadowed
to acknowledge its presence.

I can’t really explain the fear I have in telling you these things. You’d listen and accept them; I know that already. Yet even with that knowledge is the fear that you’ll never understand, not completely. I’m not even sure that I do, when everything is said and done. I don’t know if that makes it better, but somehow I feel that it does. I think that if I tried to define what I feel for you in absolutes, I’d fail miserably and that I’d somehow negate the sincerity and the power behind the feeling if I were to do so.

I don’t think the details are important. I could write a thousand different poems about how I grateful I am to you for a thousand different things, but in the end it wouldn’t matter. No matter how many different situations might arise throughout the course of our time together, no matter how long that might turn out to be, nothing that could possibly happen would make any difference in the effect you’ve had upon my life, on the way I see the world.

I wish I had a better way to thank you for proving to me that there can still be beauty in the sadness, that there can still be love and truth and justice and peace in all the sorrow we create for ourselves. I see that now, and I see it in you. I know that you can’t, at least not when you look inward. And yet I know that you see some form of that in me. You must, because you wouldn’t waste your time and your love on someone who didn’t deserve it. I don’t know how I do, but knowing that you think of me in some sort of positive way despite everything feels undeserved. I wish I had the words to tell you that before I knew you, I wasn’t aware that there was anything in me that was really worth trying to save.