Where Love Dwells, Cruelty Cannot

A man who loves his wife
does not let winter touch her bones,
nor let the night grow lonely
around her dreams.

His hands are gentle tides,
shaping the shore of her heart,
never eroding what she is —
only smoothing the rough edges
life has left behind.

His voice is a lantern,
finding her in every darkness,
calling her back to warmth
when the world has grown cold.

A man cannot be cruel
to the woman he loves —
for cruelty cannot dwell
where love has made its home;
it has no place
among the quiet rooms
where laughter rests like sunlight
and her name is spoken like a gentle vow.

She is his beloved,
the only light he follows home,
the quiet song within his soul,
the steady drum that leads his heart.

He will not plant doubt in her mind
and call it truth;
he will not starve her heart
and call it strength.
Love does not dress its wounds
in thorns for her to bleed upon.

In his gaze,
she is not something to be tamed,
but a constellation to be learned —
each star traced with reverence,
each light treasured for the path it gives.

And if storms must come,
he will stand beside her,
shoulder to shoulder,
never letting her face
the thunder alone.

For in the heart of a man
who truly loves,
there is no soil for cruelty to root;
only a garden that blooms
beneath the endless season
of his care.

- JJ