When I look at you, all I see is my beautiful boy. Not anyone else’s, mine. When I say that to you, I hope you believe it, even though I know you don’t. I can’t blame you. Words can sometimes feel empty; they fade away.

It shatters me to watch you battle ghosts that other people planted in your mind. When I touch you, I feel the ridges of old wounds that were never true. I wish I could go back and rewrite your story. None of what happened to you, none of the lies you were told about yourself, means you are unworthy of a love that is peaceful and quiet. You deserve a love that’s steady, and I want to give it to you if you’ll let me. I always cry when I write about you.

I still think about the night we were on the couch listening to your song. You kissed me and slid your fingers inside me. You kissed my mouth and said you loved me. Part of me didn’t want to believe it. Happiness scares me, until after we made love, you played with the beat of the music on my hand. Every click of your fingers on my tiny fingers felt like a current. It was in that rhythm that I realized you loved me, too.

I’m not drawn to shiny, brilliant things. It’s the darkness that pulls me in. The shadow you try to hide is what I love most about you. Your softness in the dark is where I find my own peace, the quiet, painful, crying-for-salvation moments with you. If I could gather every sorrow I’ve ever felt and trade it for one true smile on your face, I’d do it in a heartbeat.