His love for her is something I can’t shake.
It’s a partnership a lot like our own but in so many ways much, much greater.
Greater because it is so very clear that his love for her will never fully amount to the love he has for me.
Their love is the kind that makes me question the perks and quirks of the world – how a love like that can preserve to survive and surpass it all.
It makes me question my own capabilities of love, and whether they are as grandeur.
And somehow, somewhere between their gentle touches and
doting gazes, it has made my solidified love for him as unimaginably greater. Isn’t that just utterly insane? My guy’s love for another woman has embedded so much more significance of my own love than I could ever fully comprehend – And I don’t really think I care to.
I would prefer to just observe their tender worship of one another from afar, and fall deeper into their warmth that caves into my heart.
The way he tends to her needs, and makes sure her delicate body is comfortable at whatever means. The way he sits with her for hours and hours, just talking about anything and nothing at all. The way it is so naturally inclined within him to just inherently know when she’s aching with pain, or when she’s boasting of energy. Both of which, he shows up ready to devote.
To devote time. To devote attention. To devote love.
I am familiar with this kind of dedication because he so generously emulates it to every one of his beloveds; including me.
Yet this love for her is boundless.
Like an ocean. Always ready to stream and collide.
And I’m at the shore, feeling elevated and engaged at such a marvelous sight. It is marvelous, and it is so, so, so deserved.
I’m not the perfect lover, but she is.
So I watch them, synchronized in laugh and in love, as I too, fall completely dazzled and engrossed in their everything.
Wholeheartedly knowing that he is my man, and he is wholeheartedly his mother’s son.