You are a cathedral of fractured glass—
every pane kissed by catastrophe,
every color a hymn forged in flame.
I see the story etched
in the way you flinch at praise,
the slight hitch in your breath
when silence dares to stretch too long.

You were made not by ease,
but by impact—
a mosaic of once-shattered grace.
I do not look away.
No, I kneel in reverence.

Your scars are constellations
and I have mapped them all—
tracing the stories in your skin
like star-charts of survival.
There is beauty in the broken,
not despite it, but because.

So let me be the quiet sky
you rise into,
where you are not reduced
to memory or martyr.
Let me lift the ruins from your chest,
name them sacred,
and hang them like relics
in the chapel of my care.

I’ll clear your slate—not to erase,
but to rest it.
To archive your ache
in the folds of my own soul.
Your memories are safe with me.
The weight you bore—
I’ve room for it in my ribs.

I don’t want to be the shadow
that steals your sun,
but the lighthouse
that stays burning
when your horizon blurs again.
Let me be the firmament
under your tremble,
a psalm against the silence.

You don’t have to stumble alone.
You never did—
but now,
you don’t have to believe that lie again.