He was that type of broken that did not need to be fixed.
Every piece kept him whole.
His scars were his tattoos.
That kept him both guarded and free.
Protecting him from those that could not see the beauty in their detail.
Unraveling his story for those could.
He was an open book for me.
All those details made him.
His sorrows stitched together with the things he loved most.
He had the ability to make even the pain appear exquisite.
I was infatuated with the way he wore them so proudly.
How he could make sorrow so inviting.
Often wondering how kindness thrived so magnificently in the darkest parts of him.
Making the darkness feel like home.
It puzzled even those who loved him most.
New scars would appear, but his color never dimmed.
I know every inch of his scars.
My fear is that a lifetime is not long enough to know their depth.