Cracks

What is love,

Supposed to feel like?

Well I have no idea.

A gentle hand caressing,

My pink blushed ear.

Wraps around my waist.

Calloused hands hold me,

In a soft, careful way.

Scared to shatter me,

Or for me to be taken away.

I am just a poet.

He is a hard worker,

How did we end up together?

I have no idea.

I don't really try,

Or apply myself.

He gets bruises,

And he gets broken.

Do I just patch him up,

With words that have,

No meaning?

Nothing.

He's still broken.

Like a blue and gold china cup,

Ones that's empty,

Left split apart.

I could be the glue,

If I found the lines to use.

He's still broken,

With a hand bent around me.

Its blue and black,

No gold, no cracks.

He's under attack.

I never feel alone,

With him contorted around,

My waist and my face.

Swallowed in a depth,

I'll never understand.

But one thing,

I could comprehend,

Is the fact that he and I,

Though so different,

Have found a perfect match.

I am yet to fill,

The broken and bruised body,

That lays itself upon me.

I marvel at the effort,

He has done to,

Bow before me.

So in return,

I feed him words.

And this is love.

And it feels quite,

Okay.

He's gold and blue,

He's been broken before but,

I'm fine with that.

I filled in his cracks.