Within her disintegrating body,
she seems like a life
being endlessly stripped away by the world.

And yet the hand she extends
is like a soul
still willing to open itself to what is real.

Even after the storm,
she still chooses to believe,
still chooses to respond.

Behind her back rests
a power left unused.

Restrained,
quiet,
yet always present.

It does not display its sharpness,
yet it defines the weight of love.

For true love
is never indulgence without boundaries.

Nor is it allowing everything
to invade the soul
in the name of tenderness and endurance.

True love
is capable of embrace,
and also of restraint.