Soft, like roses

I have a picture

of the exact moment

I knew I loved him.

It’s strange—

how warm that memory feels,

how I stood there

not knowing what to expect.

He had just confessed his love to me.

And I captured it—

that fragile second

between truth and forever.

His eyes were so soft on me

as I turned on the camera.

He was soft.

A good soft.

The kind you hope to see in a man—

not fragile,

but gentle without fear.

It was probably

the kindest moment

he had ever been to me.

I saw that look

one more time—

when I was ill in the hospital.

That same softness.

Not like cotton.

Not light, not weightless.

Soft like roses—

tender,

alive,

and carrying thorns

you don’t see

until you hold them