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His eyes were always old,
But I only ever saw them as the calm beyond the storm.
An open invitation to safe sanctuary for all.
Our confessor.
Our blanket.
Our target.
He can't extract the magnets,
Embedded in his aura,
Drawing the corners of his mouth up, up, up,
Even when he feels like he's drowning.
Somehow, they always find their way into his personal space.
The derelicts,
The downtrodden,
The lonely,
The bitter,
The angry,
The leeches,
We feast on his ears,
Politeness oft mistaken for giving a damn.
I steal sidelong glances,
To admire his beauty in candid moments,
Always hoping to find contentment on his unmasked face.
I'll stare for minutes at a time
At a man whose face bears no creases of age,
Contradicted by the weary torment he can neither hide,
Nor hide from.
I only wish to nourish and love,
Ever wanting to be his pillow and shield.
And if he hurts
By all that I've taken,
His pain only casts shadows
In natural light.

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