The way he smiles at me.
It still makes my stomach flip.
The way he brushes my face.
Those hands that hold heart and body and soul.
That light in his eyes.
The hair on his chest and that long scar.
As we lay tangled and talking.
Him rising early to work.
Providing with out praise.
Standing there on the front lines.
Taking all the big hits.
On his shoulders.
A tender warrior.
Because he wears the Scroll as his shield.
Shielding this household of hearts.
A wise man knows that the battle rages.
On and on and on.
And he knows to be ready.
Knows that we count on him.
That we trust.
The way he lays his life right down.
This good man.
A God man,