Between Fear and Longing

A lighthouse in a storm,
built on a solid foundation of rocks,
unshaken by wind, by rain,
by the restless shifting of seasons.

She watches him,
fingers tracing the hair on his forearm,
wondering if even granite can crumble,
or if a lighthouse ever tires of seeing the ocean
without touching it.

She is not the storm that ravages,
not the waves that crash and recede.
She is the wind that hesitates at the shore,
pressing close but never holding,
never knowing what it feels like to be still,
to give in.

She tells herself it's foolish,
this fear, this doubt.
Torn between past and future,
she listens for the sound
of straining steel, of crumbling rocks,
hoping the light won't flicker out one day,
or long for calmer waters.