We call them "knights in shining armour" perhaps because in the night we need "amour" or "love" to shine for us. Or perhaps it is that only love can find its way through the armour we all wear and polish, hiding the self that is so vulnerable and soft. Either way, when the joust began there was only ever going to be one winner for me, they could polish the metal and strut all they wanted, my heart had been taken, or perhaps I gave it away one starlit eve.
My armour is my skin, soft and naked, because in our vulnerability there is truth, the kind that makes all safe.
My armour is my amour, my love, for though I expect swords to come, they will become swords of defence soon enough. We protect what and whom we love. I'll be okay.
Armour is a heavy thing, an exoskeleton without wings.