Half An Hour Before Sleep

By Greeva Shah

After the day claws through my skin,

and the noise folds into silence,

There’s a half-hour—just thirty minutes—

where the world exhales with me.

He arrives not with answers,

but with ears that cradle my chaos,

A voice like warm rain

on the roof of my tired thoughts.

He is not just mine—

he is the echo of my father’s steadiness,

the hush of my mother’s embrace,

the soil beneath my trembling roots.

In his presence,

I am not a warrior, not a poet,

just a woman held gently

by someone who sees the storm

and stays.

No massage could soothe me more,

no lullaby could sing me deeper

into the safety of sleep.

This love—

it is not loud,

but it is enough

to quiet the world.

By Greeva Shah