“Vulnerability and love”

To love is to open a trembling door,  
Bare hands on the ancient, unvarnished wood;  
Light slants in where it never has before,  
And dust motes swirl like hope misunderstood.

It's trusting your heart to a sea spun with knives,  
Returning each morning to mend a small sail,  
Confessing aloud the most delicate drives,  
Believing, despite it, the current won’t fail.

Vulnerability: brittle, a rain-beaten rose,  
Petals transparent, the thorns subtly sweet;  
It’s daring to linger while fear comes and goes,  
Letting storm after storm knock you off of your feet.

But oh, how the light on the other side grows!  
How golden the dawn, how hallowed the hush—  
When two tender spirits, transparent as prose,  
Meet, trembling but brave, in the vulnerable rush.

To love is to stand in that doorway, undressed,  
Heart spilled like rain on the welcoming floor;  
It’s knowing the cost and still choosing the rest:  
To open, to offer, to ache—and adore.

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