Inspired by a quote I once read. Love is really seeing an imperfect person perfectly.
He does not love him because his love is so hard to find
No, he is the hardest love that's easiest to find
among the elderberry bushes and crusted sunflower seeds
of summer burning through the shingles of cooler days long since past
and his laugh echoing that of a child's
as he once was when his love succumbed to none and succumbs to none still.
No, he does not love him because his eyes are hued with the black starlight of summer nights
and his eyelashes a poignant master of curls
and rare dimpled smile illuminating the sun and illuminating the entire galaxy's fortress of planet warriors with it
and curve of body one too many lines with not enough hands to hook into them.
No, he does not love him because his wit has no tamer, no master of equals
the stubbornness of each invective an eviscerating slash from cell to cell
until he remains undivided and lacks strength to stand.
No, he loves him because there had been one evening
when he could not tell when summer ended and autumn began
the trees harboring color changing tricks of their own rights
and he had looked at him, seemingly for the first time
looked at him and saw in a blazing light
across from him a man sat
perfectly in all his imperfections.