Quiet Hour

I know the cost of this –
the way a heart can split
like a shoreline giving in to the tide,
knowing the water will always return
even as it erodes the sand.

Still, I move toward you.

You quiet the storms in my mind,
turn the noise into something soft,
like rain tapping on a window
instead of thunder shaking the walls.

I want all of you –
the bright mornings and the heavy nights,
the laughter that rises without warning
and the shadows you try to hide.

I’ve never felt a pull like this,
a gravity that feels chosen,
as if the universe titled
just slightly
to make our paths collide.

And yet –
there is her,
the promise waiting in another city,
the life you’re supposed to build
with someone who isn’t me.

There is us,
pretending professionalism is a shield,
pretending we didn’t cross a line
the moment our eyes lingered
a second to long.

I know I’m the one
who will bruise if this breaks,
the one who will carry the ache
long after the world rights itself.

But tell me –
how can something that steadies me
be the very thing I’m warned against?

I reach for you anyway,
knowing the danger,
knowing the ending,
knowing the hurt.

And still –
I want you.
All of you.
Even if wanting you
is the wound I choose.