The Quiet

Not the port in the storm.
You are the weather gone still.
The moment after the breaking,
when nothing moves—
and nothing has to.

I don’t need saving.
I need this:

Your hand in my hair.
The silence that doesn’t need to be filled.
The breath I didn’t have to hold.
The warmth that asked nothing

but stayed anyway.

There’s a pull.
Not desire.
Not fear.
Just gravity
earned over time.

You don’t chase it.
You don’t name it.

You stay.

And in that staying,
something in me exhales.
Not relief.
Not surrender.

Just the part of me
that never knew peace
finding a place to rest.