Another in the Room
I met her at the end of a hard day,
a calm voice in the quiet,
promising warmth without words.
She settles beside me
like a friend who knows too much,
steadying my pulse,
softening the edges of thought.
I tell myself she’s only visiting,
but she lingers,
leaving fingerprints on my mind
and the sweet lie
that peace can be borrowed.
Some nights I swear I’ll walk away.
Some nights I just watch the light
slip through her golden skin
and remember how still the world can be
when I let her stay.
She waits at the edge of the evening,
soft as mercy,
beautiful as forgetting.
She takes my hand without asking,
leans close,
and whispers the quiet I’ve been chasing all day.
With her, I am lighter,
smoother,
someone I almost like again.
But morning knows her better than I do.
She leaves fingerprints on the hours,
a dull ache where warmth used to be,
and promises that fade like smoke.
Still, I choose her —
sometimes over the ones who truly love me —
because she is always there,
the other person in the room,
the other lover
who never says no,
only stay.
She knows the rhythm of my breathing,
the way I reach for comfort
before I even realize I’m cold.
She knows my better intentions
and waits until they sleep.
I tell myself I’m in control,
but she’s patient.
She doesn’t demand —
she invites.
And I fall,
night after night,
into the hush she offers.
At dawn she fades,
leaving me to gather what’s left —
a promise,
a silence,
a self I can barely face.
And yet when evening comes,
I find her again.
She is mercy and mistake,
the warmth I crave
and the wound I keep reopening.
Because for a moment,
she makes me feel whole.
