Theirs is said to be a marriage of tragedy. They call him deformed, warped, a presence that insulted the heavens; while she was the epitome of beauty, of love.

The poets misspoke.

He is not ugly, though not handsome either, but those eyes. Hard on the world, yet tender on her. His form is something chiseled, stone, a reminder that art is not meant to be beautiful.

She abandons obvious passion for something more alluring. She abandons war in favor of fire.

He holds her gently, long fingers that can glide a breath away from her skin, rendering her paralyzed. He makes. He makes and creates beauty in his hands that doesn’t exist in his face. He makes her calm. He makes her quiet.

She bends to kiss his calloused hands and begs him. Show me your scars. Show me your ash. So he answers in return.

Show me your stars.
Show me your love.