You are gentle on the soul, like pink balloons blowing in the wind, close enough to see but far to the touch. I anticipate every hug and every kiss, every moment where vulnerability is more necessary than strength.

You’re a threat to my masculinity; you force me to feel. I think of ways to make you smile before I wear my own.

You are unfamiliar to the soul, like pink balloons held in hands that have never experienced joy. I hold on to you, reminding myself you are delicate and deserving of care, reminding myself you put your trust in me.

You’re a danger to my sanity; you give me reason to be overbearing. I want to protect you from all the things that can cause pain.

You are strange to the soul, like pink balloons dancing in a dark room. They won’t understand what you mean to me, that you are all the light that I need.

You’re a risk to my insecurities; a trigger of ghosts past I’m willing to overlook.

You are what my soul needs, like pink balloons at a commemoration. A sight I’ve waited for, for so long. Finally, it’s my turn to know reciprocation; it’s my turn to be happy.

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