Quiet Hour

I grew up seeing a different kind of love —
Grandma and Grandpa choosing each other
in every season,
arms that stayed,
hands that didn’t let go
when things got heavy.
They taught me what it means
to guard a heart
because it’s precious,
not because it’s unprotected.
And maybe that’s why I walk around
feeling like I was born in the wrong era —
like my soul still believes in slow dancing
in the kitchen,
in handwritten notes,
in love that doesn’t disappear
when the mood changes.
The kind who walks curbside,
leans in when I’m quiet,
looks at me like he’s memorizing
the shape of my smile.
I’m out here wanting that old school love —
the kind that stays,
the kind that chooses me
in the daylight and the dark,
the kind that won’t go to bed angry
because losing me in the night
would hurt too much.
For a love that feels like a porch light left on,
like warm hands on a cold night,
like a man who doesn’t have to choose —
because he already knows
I’m the one he can’t live without.