I don’t know you very well.
Your barriers are strong,
and you are loved, and even if you weren’t,
well then that’d be okay, because you’d deserve it anyways,
and that’s good enough for you.
Stable in your own skin,
when the rest of the world is falling apart at the seams,
and even in my dreams,
I hardly know the mask I wear,
so I can’t help but stare,
and see you,
an iron spirit in a world of paper on a rainy day.
No shepherd could make you stray,
neither false creed nor unrequited need.
Implacable in your contentedness.
Your trial is over, and the fire forged you stronger.
All I know is your mother’s womb was a kiln,
and the rest of the world would be burning before you ever felt a bead of sweat.