All Your Versions
Track 9 of Bare
[ Lyrics ]
I love you sick — I love you tired — I love you messy. You wake up with the blanket wrapped 'round your feet, hair all on one side like a storm just hit. No smile, no charm, you grunt instead of speak, still reach for my hand when you can't sleep. I catch you staring out the glass, lost in your own war, I don’t ask — I just slide the coffee to the door. You don’t say much, but I read your face, the way you fold your hurt into quiet space. And if you snap, if the silence grows thick, I won’t flinch, I won’t play it slick. I’ll sit beside you, take up room, wait for the clouds to make their move. I love you sick, love you tired, love you messy, love the version that the world thinks is less in. I love you slow, love you quiet, love you tangled, love the man that the daylight feels like a fumble in. I love you all — not the act, not the show — I love every piece that you never let go. Last week, you cried into your sweatshirt sleeve, over a song, over a memory. I didn’t fix it, didn’t call you weak — took off my shoes, lay down at your feet. You laughed mid-sniff, said I looked absurd, I said, ‘your pain’s not a guest — it’s part of the word.’ And I mean it — not as praise, not as fluff, but as fact, like the sky is enough. You don’t have to flex, don’t have to pretend, don’t have to love me like it’s on demand. I’m not here for the shine, I’m not here for the show — I’m here when the battery dies and the lights go low. I love you sick, love you tired, love you messy, love the version that the world thinks is less in. I love you slow, love you quiet, love you tangled, love the man that the daylight feels like a fumble in. I love you all — not the act, not the show — I love every piece that you never let go. You think I loved you more that night in the dress, or that trip when you nailed the toast at your friend’s wedding? No — I loved you most yesterday, 3 p.m., when you coughed twice, sighed, and said, ‘I’m just… tired, baby.’ That — that was the gift. That was the key. Not perfection. Just truth. Just you, choosing me. I love you sick, love you tired, love you messy, love the version that the world thinks is less in. I love you slow, love you quiet, love you in pieces, love how you trust me enough to just… be ungraceful in. I love you all — scars, sighs, the unrest — I love every version, not just the best. Even then… Even then… Even then… Even then.