This man, this me. . . we're more than two decades of we.

And we're weary

~

For having been face down in the arena, trembling with fear.

From the side-swiping wallop of our hardest of years,

The worst, marked by untold numbers of tears.

And we're tender

~

From the places we've hurt each other and the damage we've caused.

At the wounds we've inflicted without taking pause.

From our hearts being frozen, and then, from the thaws.

And so now we're careful

~

With our time and our energy, where we spend it, he and I.

In how we speak the language of love, each day that goes by.

To choose only truth and never utter even one more lie.

And we're awash in hope

~

For how we clung tightly in terror over thoughts of letting go.

From having failures in our books but forging on, even though.

For only growing closer and stronger in the face of woe.

We're more than two decades after we said, "I do."

We're all these years in and still saying it, too.

We're getting it done, the hard work of love and this life,

Both of us joyous I'm still his wife.

This man, this me. . . we are grit, we are steel, we are hurt, we are real.

We are not our mistakes, we are more so how we've healed.

This man, this me. . . we are poised for even more decades of we.