The Seventh Hour Poem by Pushp Sirohi

We met where time forgot to keep its score,
In seven turns the night learned how to breathe;
Each touch a bell that rang a deeper door,
Each pause a vow the body couldn't leave.

The first was spark, a match against the skin,
The second—wine that warmed the quiet chest;
The third, a tide that pulled the moon within,
The fourth, a storm that would not let us rest.

By fifth, the earth had learned our secret names,
By sixth, the stars grew curious and leaned;
The seventh came—no hunger left, no flames,
Just two who knew what being whole had meant.

Not counted acts, but crossings of one soul—
Seven times, till desire dissolved into whole.