Yours.

You touch these tired eyes of mine, and map my face out line by line, and somehow growing old feels fine. I listen close for I'm not smart. You wrap you thoughts in works of art and they're hanging on the walls of my heart. I may not have the softest touch, I may not say the words as such and though I may not look like much I'm yours. And though my edges may be rough and never feel I'm quite enough, It may not seem like very much but I'm yours. You heeled these scars over time, embraced my soul, you loved my mind. You're the only angel in my life.