Is it really love

-is it really love.

Don’t tell me I should’ve known better.

I did.

But knowing better never stopped me from hoping harder.

So yes, I opened the window.

I let the wind in.

I let you in.

And for a second,

I thought you were peace wrapped in movement.

A breath of fresh air in a room I’ve kept locked for years.

But the thing about the wind?

It never stays.

It kisses your skin, lifts your hair,

then leaves you cold, confused, and shaking.

How can I blame the wind for the mess it made

if it was me who opened the window?

I held the frame like it was your hand,

steady, hopeful,

but the wind was never meant to stay.

You were never meant to stay.

And when I finally wanted to close it,

to shut it, seal it, end it,

the wind grew louder.

Rougher.

Meaner.

It pushed against me like punishment.

Like it was mad I changed my mind.

But when did I ever have a say?

You don’t get to call me dramatic

when I was the one who stayed

to clean up the broken glass.

To pick up the scattered pages of love letters

that never made it to your hands.

To cry over the curtains that used to dance

every time you passed by.

It’s not about the wind and the window.

It’s about me.

Still standing in the middle of a storm

I asked for.

Thinking it would heal me.

You didn’t ruin me.

I did that all on my own.

By believing that your presence was soft enough

to stay.

And strong enough

to choose me.

But the wind never chooses.

It just moves.

And I,

I just stood there.

Loving something

that was never meant

to stay.