It is not aesthetics that mark their beauty

It is reading Dean Koontz
            by waves of oncoming headlights
                           on our way back home

It is replacing city sounds
                with cacophonic frog songs
                            that keep us awake

It is holding their hand
                to follow in the dark
                            while they lead you through

It is awakening to the morning
                with coffee-fragrant air
                            and chocolate croissants baking

It is running out of gas
                waiting for a rescue
                            and singing Zach Williams at the top of our lungs

It is being unbelievably COVID-broke
                  enjoying their voice on the phone
                             and receiving an unexpected gift

It is knowing they will laugh just as hard as you
                    at the joke you have been saving all day
                               because no one else gets it.

It is stumbling ungracefully through
                    a new worship song
                                hearing them sing robustly off-key

It is them doing that one thing
                    you desperately needed them to do
                                before they ask

It is them playing Burn the Ships
                    as we leave a skeezy Best Western
                                (that we had no idea would be skeezy)

It is the collection of memories
                    in my sacred mental temple
                                   that lives on in my grateful heart