Quiet Hour

I don’t want to be noble about this.
I don’t want to pretend I’m above it
or healed
or graceful in my wanting.
I want you.
In the way that makes my chest hurt
when your name lights up my phone.
In the way that makes me replay
every almost-look, every pause,
every moment I thought—
this is it; this is where you choose me.
My body leans toward you
before I can stop it.
My heart keeps forgetting
that you go home to someone else.
And I hate that I know that.
I hate that I respect it.
I hate that you don’t even seem torn.
Because I would fight.
I would risk being the bad person,
the messy one,
the one who admits this matters.
But you don’t.
You stay still.
You stay comfortable.
And I’m left wondering
if what I feel is real only because
I’m the one carrying it.
Some days I feel pathetic
for hoping you’ll wake up
and realize you chose wrong.
Some days I feel strong
for not asking you to destroy anything for me.
Most days I feel both.
I don’t need you to leave them.
I just need you to see me.
To admit—out loud—that this pull exists,
that I’m not imagining the electricity,
that I’m not crazy for wanting more
than what you’re willing to give.
I’m done pretending this doesn’t cost me anything.
I’m done carrying your comfort like it’s my responsibility.
I want you to want me
enough to be willing to lose something.
Enough to be unsure.
Enough to not already know the answer.
I want you to choose me
with your life, not just your glances,
not just the way your voice drops
when it’s only us.
And I hate how much I want this—
how I imagine you leaving her,
how I imagine you saying my name
like it’s finally allowed.
I don’t want to be the secret
you protect yourself from.
I don’t want to be the almost
that never asks for more.
So here it is, unsoftened:
I want you to want me enough
to stand in the wreckage of that choice
and say,
I’m here. I chose you.
I’m not asking for promises—
but I am asking whether you could choose me.