Amid the Flaws, I Found Thee

For love, when true, seeks not perfection, but the soul beneath its scars. My Dearest, I have beheld a hundred faults in thee, Yet still thy soul is fair to me; For though the world may mock and chide, One spark of good shall turn the tide. Perfection is a dream long flown, A crown that none have ever known. Our hearts — though worn by time and pain — Still dare to hope, still love again. Thou see’st my flaws with judging eyes, Each wound that years could not disguise; Yet blind thou art, and dost not see The mirrored fault that lives in thee. But I — I love not sculpted grace, Nor masks that hide a weary face; I love the truth, the trembling part, The storm that beats within thy heart. So let the heavens praise the pure, The saints who love and never err; I crave the fire, the tender ache, The mortal heart that dares to break. And though the world may scorn our hue, I found my peace, my light — in you. Forever thine, In flaw, in faith, in endless truth, — Thine ever, in love and imperfection.