Portrait of the Man I Love

—a painting made of language for I cannot draw him, so I shape him with syllables— his smile, the sacred chaos in his thoughts, the way he carried sorrow like a secret symphony. This is the only way I can preserve him: in words that ache, in lines that bleed. So every reader might see what I saw— and fall in love, the way I always will. A painting made of words for the one whose depth and being no brush could ever capture.

He does not speak like a poem—

his voice comes rough, careless,

like wind knocking over glass,

yet when he speaks to me,

it’s the hush of rain on childhood windows,

soft, singing, trembling, almost shy.

A child’s voice borrowed by a man who’s forgotten how to cry.

His face is carved in a solemn stillness,

set like dusk—always a little annoyed,

a little ready to rage,

yet when he turns to me,

the corners of his eyes crease into something warm,

and suddenly, he’s a boy again,

eyes black as a moonless sea—

not frightening, but enveloping,

like velvet night wrapping its arms around a weary soul.

When something grips him, he doesn’t blink,

he stares like it might vanish if he does—

like wonder is too rare to risk missing.

He furrows his brows when he’s playful,

as if mischief itself had a forehead,

and when he smiles—God, when he smiles—

his whole face flowers,

like the storm paused just to watch a petal fall.

Intensity lives in his stillness,

his resting face a thundercloud,

but the moment I smile,

he crumbles into sunlight,

as if joy were contagious

and I was the only one who could give him the fever.

He is loud like thunder—

rude to strangers who misread storms,

but with me,

he speaks in the dialect of longing,

his rough edges softened into velvet apologies.

Even the crudest joke,

falls like a feather in the wind

when he blushes at the smallest tenderness I give.

His eyes crinkle when they smile,

wrinkles born of secrets and sleepless dreams,

and he is a hurricane made of contradictions:

impulsive as wildfire,

yet thoughtful like someone who’s memorized every scar on your soul.

There is madness there—

a glint that could kill or cradle,

leave without a word,

or follow you into the afterlife,

no questions asked.

A man who doesn’t care about his lungs as much as he should,

to my quiet heartbreak—

a man so perfectly in control

until the moment he isn’t.

The one who could end the world for you,

if he willed—

and still,

the one who would try until his last ragged breath to save it.

He’s one in a million—

or perhaps,

the only one of his kind

in this whole wide, aching universe.

He wears the spirit of an old man

and the wonder of a little boy,

wrapped in roughness like armor,

but beneath it—

a garden where love grows wildly, chaotically,

without pruning or permission.

He wounds when he pushes away,

but only because the sea in him overflows.

He is a man who listens to no one but himself—

and sometimes, to me.

Because he loves me in a way that breaks rules,

loves me so fiercely he says

I am the only person in the world he has ever loved.

He is both cruel and kind,

sometimes in the same breath.

Sharp edges softened only by the sound of my name

While I look at this ethereally surreal human in awe and I can for eternity.

And oh—

he is intense.

Wild like a storm trapped in skin,

a fire with no fear of being too much.

He touches like he means it,

kisses like confessions,

loves me like a man who’s lived a thousand lives

and still finds wonder in a single sigh of mine.

He’s carnal and curious—

but with me,

he is reverent.

Worshipful in the quiet moments,

tender as a lullaby sung by a soldier.

There’s wildness in his chaos,

but poetry in his stillness.

He is a lover

and a home,

and somehow—both at once.

His hair curls like waves caught mid-dance,

jawline sharp as glass,

but when he faces you head-on—

his cheeks, soft, round—

you want to kiss him

like the world might end before you get the chance again.

He raises his eyebrow with sarcasm sharp enough to cut,

then pouts like a boy denied a bedtime story—

and suddenly, you’d burn kingdoms just to keep him safe.

He is everything at once—

a mosaic of mercurial moods,

too immense for labels, too vivid for frames.

A fire that warms and scorches,

an icicle that melts when held.

He stands out—always—

a celestial body in a world of static stars.

Even if he forgets you,

you will carry the ache of his gravity forever.

So here is a man who speaks roughly, carelessly,

but softens like a child when he speaks to me—

as if something inside him only remembers gentleness in my presence.

His voice, often loud and unfiltered,

is somehow the most sacred sound when it lowers just for me.

He has a face that settles in a solemn frown,

with an edge of annoyance, even a quiet rage—

but when he looks at me,

the corners of his eyes smile,

and he becomes a boy again—

lost, found, and entirely mine.

His eyes—narrow in shape, but impossibly wide

when they meet mine—

are black as night,

but not the kind that haunts—

the kind that holds you,

wraps you in velvet

and says: you are safe here.

When something captures his interest, like watching me sleep, he never blinks—

a statue made of passion and fire.

He furrows his brows when he's being playful,

his smile taking over his whole face

like the sun deciding, suddenly, to rise.

When expression leaves him,

he looks angry—intense—unapproachable.

But if I smile first,

he can’t help but follow—

and in that moment,

he’s no longer storm,

but surrender.

He is a rare and ancient language

spoken fluently only by God.

And somehow,

for reasons I’ll never earn or understand—

he loved only me.

and he looked at me like I was worth loving.

And I can never forget the sound of that gaze.

Even now,

I write him down,

hoping the world might fall for him

just once,

the way I always will.

His hair curls in soft defiance,

waves that grow wild when left alone.

A sharp jaw—like something carved—but when you see him from the front,

his cheeks round like a child’s,

and all you want is to press your lips there

and whisper that he’s safe.

He has that sarcastic raised eyebrow when he’s teasing—

and when he pouts,

he is every child who has ever been wronged by the world,

and all you want is to protect him and hold him to you.

He is a million things at once—

more than can ever be caught on paper,

more than any painting could hold.

The most beautifully complex soul

God ever thought to breathe life into.

He is what you imagine

when you close your eyes and ask for magic,

and yet—he’s always different.

Darker than your nightmares and brighter than your dreams.

Always more.

Always him.

No one forgets him.

because of how he makes you feel—

like you’ve been rewritten.

Ruined in the most beautiful way.

He is the man I love.

And even if no one ever sees him the way I do,

this portrait will exist—

word by word,

stroke by stroke—

until someone, somewhere,

falls in love with him too

even if he will always remain mine.

© 2025 Inaba Tarek