Choose the Hand That Stays

There was once a love

that arrived like lightning

bright, unforgettable,

writing its name across the sky before vanishing into distance.

And there is a love

that arrives like morning quiet, steady, opening the curtains each day without asking for applause.

One taught her how deeply a heart can awaken.

The other teaches her

how gently a heart can rest.

She does not deny the lightning.

She honors it.

It showed her the vastness of her own sky.

But she no longer builds a home in a flash that has already passed.

She chooses the morning.

Not because it is louder,

not because it is dramatic,

but because it stays.

She tells herself:

I can keep the memory

without living inside it.

I can honor what was

without refusing what is.

I can love what shaped me

and still choose what holds me.

The right choice is not always the most intense.

It is the one that lets you breathe, sleep, heal, laugh,

and be seen in daylight.

So she steps forward

not betraying the past,

but blessing it.

Not abandoning what was real, but accepting what is present.

She chooses the hand

that does not disappear.

She chooses the voice

that stays.

She chooses the life

that is here.

And in doing so,

she does not lose love.

She becomes the home

she was always searching for.