I’ve fallen for your flaws.

Your stubbornness—your warped sense of humor—the way you retreat, suddenly, into silent spells of moody brooding.

Darling, the parts of you that irritate the sh*t out of me, are the parts I’ve come to adore the most.

I long to open up your broken bits and kiss the frayed edges of your sore, ripped seams. I long to trail my fingers over your scabs and and see the splotchy shadows that stain your soul.

Darling, I feel lush, plump wildflowers growing happily amidst the wreckage of your disappointments and mistakes. I see shooting stars in your cracked hopes. I taste love in your struggle.

Dammit, darling, your so-called faults are like proud rubies dancing in a blood orange sunrise, moving me to tears with their haunting beauty.

Your cracks and imperfections are achingly delicious—stuffed with juicy, vibrant life.

Because really—-what are flaws but the very things that complete a masterpiece?  The final sweeps of a brush that make something into breathtaking art, rather than sh*t.

And, darling, I think you’re a masterpiece.

I love you more fiercely with every second that slips through our shaky hands.

Bleed on me. Cry on me. Lean on me.

Let’s get real and raw, stripped down and tender—we never cared much for empty, small talk anyway.

As we cut through our fears with the sweaty ropes of endlessly passionate kisses, I want you to know something.

I’m going to make a promise to you, one that I will keep tucked in my heart’s front pocket, until we die:

I promise I will never fix you.

It’s not my job. It’s not my place to tell you how the imperfect castle of your brilliant spirit should be designed.

That is your job.

Besides, who the hell am I to mess with the mysterious magic of your mouthwatering soul?

I’m not so flawless, either, darling. I’m bruised and bloodied from life, sometimes a bit unstable, often crying at the most inconvenient times.

And those parts of me—the ones I find grotesque and unbearable —are the very pieces that make you smile when we wake at sunrise, lying cheek to cheek, peering at each other through groggy, sleep-stained eyes.

You tell me that my messy imperfections are perfect, to you.

I feel the same way.

So, darling, let’s make a deal—a pinky-promise with our hearts:

Take me as I am.

And I’ll take you, as you are.

Let’s not fix each other.

Let’s settle into the splintered shards of our sparkling brokenness and make art out of it. Make meaning out of it. Make love out of it.

Let’s paint the sky with our vibrant f*ck up’s and color the clouds with the beautiful chaos running through our crazy veins.

Let’s be restless and awkward and magical as hell.

Let’s walk, imperfect hand in imperfect hand,

Into an imperfect sunset.

Let’s face this brutally beautiful world together.

And give each other the wild, juicy freedom

To be exactly

Who we are.

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Relephant read:

In your Arms. {Poem}

Relephant bonus:

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Author: Sarah Harvey

Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock

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